


Harold Wants to Play a Game

by FantasyPrincess



Category: Person of Interest (TV), Saw (Movies)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Twins, Canon-Typical Violence, Cross Over, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-28 00:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10059008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasyPrincess/pseuds/FantasyPrincess
Summary: When Zep Hindle's number comes up, it's up to Harold Finch and his friends to play a very dangerous game.  Live or Die.  Everyone's relevant to someone.  Make your choice.





	1. Happy Birthday, Finch

**Author's Note:**

> I'm basing most of this in the Person of Interest canon world, so you don't really need to know Saw very well to follow this fic. I got to have a lot of fun with all of our favorite characters so I hope you enjoy it! **I've had to rewrite and rework several elements of the storyline, so if you've already started with this fic, please reread the first chapter before continuing. There are differences that will come into play in later chapters!

** Chapter One – Happy Birthday, Finch **

** February 10th, 2013 - 6PM **

“Mr. Reese?”

Harold was standing in his library, taking tentative steps.  He certainly wasn’t pacing.  Pacing would mean he was nervous. Harold Finch wasn’t nervous and he trusted his partner.  So what if it’d been over three hours since he’d last checked in.  So what if his GPS signal hadn’t pinged for the last forty-five minutes.  He was probably in a black out zone; there are so many of those in that industrial stretch of Queens where he was last seen.  Harold refreshed the screen a fifth time, telling himself it was routine and not frantic in the slightest.

 _Are you there, Finch?_   The little red dot came back onto the screen just as John’s voice came through.

Finch closed his eyes but kept his voice level.  “Always, Mr. Reese.  I trust you’ve been able to subdue the threat to Veronica Matlins life?”  He sat down breathing out slowly so John wouldn’t hear the happy little sigh of relief he made.

 _You sound surprised, Finch,_ John said, the playful note returning to his voice.

Harold scoffed and confirmed that Veronica herself was all set and on a bus to the middle of nowhere, her loan sharks wouldn’t be able to tail her anymore.  “So you should return back to the library to check in.  I’m sure you probably need some respite.”

_I’ve got a stop to make first, but I’ll be there eventually._

Harold’s eyebrows raised.  “It’s your turn to take Bear!”  he said, indignantly.

_I know Finch, I’ll just have to make it up to him.  Besides, you’ve been sitting there for three hours, I’m sure you could do with a little air._

His lips pursed and he stood resolutely.  Bear’s ears perked up and he trotted over with his leash.  “Yes, yes, no need to rub it in.”  Bear whined a little and nudged his leg.  “Ok, let’s go.”  Bear yelped in thanks and galloped towards the door.

*

Harold did enjoy the crisp air and found himself smiling and pulling his jacket a little closer.   It was getting warmer, but winter wasn’t quite finished yet.  He limped along with Bear who stayed relatively close, sniffing and enjoying the outdoors nearly as much as Finch.  He decided suddenly that they both needed a treat, so he took Bear to the closest dog run park.  Remembering the route, Bear was getting excited, and pulled on the leash.  Harold sat on a nearby bench and watched him run and play with the other dogs.  He found himself chuckling at a bull mastiff, who’d taken a liking to Bear and was happily yelping at him, trying to get him to give chase.

_Hey, glasses?_

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Detective Fusco?”  Harold could hear sirens in the background and what sounded like a beer tap.

_I was wondering if you could help me out of a jam here.  We’ve got a problem with a laptop at this crime scene.  The guys from IT can’t even get it to turn on.  Ya got a minute?  Could really use you on this, and I’ll throw in a beer to make it worth your while._

Harold smirked to himself and, after taking down the address, told Fusco he was on his way.  He whistled for Bear and made his way back to the library.  Once the dog was fed, he grabbed his briefcase and locked up, heading towards the bar.  

The Irish pub, “Blarney Stone,” was not that far away from the library as it turned out. It was one of the quietest crime scenes Harold had ever seen.  Almost no police activity.  There were a couple of off-duty cops at the bar and the rest of the tables were deserted.  

He limped up to the bartender, “Excuse me,” he said as unassumingly as he could.  “I’m looking for Detective Fusco, is he…” he let the unasked question hang between them.  The bartender, who looked like an old retired cop himself nodded his head towards the back room, giving him a professional little smirk.  “Thanks ever so much,” Harold said, making his way to the back.

There were a few steps down at the end of a dark hallway.  He nearly bumped into a door, which he opened into an even darker space.  He couldn’t see a thing and he blinked into the void.

“SURPRISE!”  The lights came on and Harold recoiled briefly, in the sudden glare.  When his eyes came back into focus, he froze, color creeping up his neck.

He could see Fusco and Carter wearing stupid little party hats and grinning at him as they came closer.  Fusco shook his hand and gave him a clap on the shoulder.  Carter drew him in for a warm hug and gave him the smallest of pecks on the cheek.  Shaw was draped over a chair by the back door and gave him a little salute, with a whiskey already in her hand.

“Happy Birthday, Finch,” John’s soft murmur came from behind him.  Harold must have jumped because suddenly John was steadying him with one arm, and a small present in his hand.  “You’ve earned a little celebration, Harold, relax!”

Fusco shoved a top shelf scotch into Finch’s hand and clinked it with his seltzer and lime, “Cheers, four eyes, another trip around the sun.”  Shaw rapt on the table, “Speech, Speech!” which was soon taken up by everyone else in attendance.

A tiny bit of tension eased in Harold’s shoulders as he looked out at everyone and he loosened his tie.  He put his briefcase down on a nearby table and gently leaned on it for support.  “Thank you all for this, I was not expecting…” He held up his glass.  “To…” he stopped, smirking out at the smiling faces.  “To genuine friends who’ve seen fit to share their lives in my humble company.”  He raised his glass and then suddenly there was music.  Everyone clapped.

They made room for him at the back table.  Everyone moved in and began speaking at once.  While the others were engaged in debate, he leaned over to John and quietly asked, “How did you know?”

John only smirked at him and turned to whisper something to Shaw.

Harold sipped his scotch while he watched John and Sameen get up from the table.  Reese winked at Harold before turning to Shaw.  “You sure you want to do this?”  He was rolling up his sleeves.

Shaw rolled her shoulders.  “You cheated last time.”

Harold smiled, taking another swig of his drink, and turned to watch them.

Reese smiled, “I can’t help it if the table collapsed in the middle of a bar fight that, for once, was _not_ my fault.”

Shaw glared, taking her stance, her elbow practically digging into the table and she planted her feet.  “Go time, John.”  Reese cracked his neck and gripped her hand, smirking all the while.  

Just as they were poised to begin, Carter picked up her head from her drink and yelped.  “Wait!  What are you doing?”  She jumped up from where she was sitting, breezing passed Finch, to the other side of the two combatants, a napkin in her hand.  “If we’re really doing this, it must be done right!”

She unfolded it and placed the napkin over their hands, holding them together tightly.  She looked from Reese, to Shaw, and back to Reese.  “And,” she stepped back and pinched the napkin, pulling it up at the same time shouting, “Go!”  

The strain on their faces was enough to make Carter smack the table and whoop encouragement.  Mid sip, Harold soon found himself shouting and laughing when Fusco whistled. 

Fusco turned to look at Finch and shook his head, grinning.  “Hey, does Mr. Peabody know how to shoot pool?”  Harold’s stern gaze of pride was all Lionel needed.  He chuckled as he stood up.  “I’ll rack.” 

Harold seemed to look back at the two arm wrestlers, indicating them with his drink.  “What about –“

“Is there any part of that you think won’t last for hours?  A regular cage match.  _I_ want to see what _you_ got, birthday boy!”  Fusco handed him a cue and went to rack the game.  Harold tested the weight of the stick and stealthily pulled a different one, setting down his drink. 

The arm wrestling match lasted exactly forty-two minutes, with only brief moments of Shaw taking sips of her drink and asking Carter for two refills as they went. 

Reese came to watch the pool game, closely followed by Carter.  “One of the greatest stalemates I’ve ever seen,” she said, flushed, and smirking at John. 

He looked disappointed, but instead grabbed Harold’s glass and went to refill his drink.  He passed Shaw on the way.  “Next time,” he said, clinking the empty glass with hers. 

“I don’t know what you mean, your hand moved way more than mine did.”

Johns eyes narrowed.  “Best two out of three?”

“Come back in while and we’ll see,” Shaw said, downing her drink and coming over to watch Harold and Lionel play pool.

Harold was winning but only by a slim lead.  Fusco lined up his shot and sunk two balls at once, pulling ahead by one point.  The next shot he missed, which meant the last shot went to Harold.  Harold considered the shot carefully before taking it, walking around the table twice.  Reese returned with his drink and Finch formally accepted it, looking at Fusco as he knocked it back and downed it in one go. 

Lining up the shot, he said, quietly into the din, “Nine ball, corner pocket.”  The shot was hard.  Everyone held their breath as he leaned over, shot and sunk it effortlessly.

The uproarious applause was deafening.  Harold smiled, letting the pain subside from the effort and straightened up again.

Lionel laughed the loudest and came over to shake Harold’s hand.  “Got to admit, I gave you a run for your money.”

“A worthy match, Detective.”  He grinned, showing teeth, and made his way back to the table, the canary eating smile stayed long into the night. 

The evening seemed to flow organically after that.  Carter told an amusing story about an arrest that week and Reese explained the better part of different fighting styles to Fusco, keeping all the gory details out and actually using a wildlife metaphor most of the time, which Finch appreciated.

Harold had asked a strategy question and Fusco turned to Carter for a moment and just as John was explaining the Tiger wrestling with a Honey Badger, smirking at Harold’s not quite horrified expression, they both turned to hear Carter’s voice. 

“It’s only going to get messier, Fusco.  We can’t let it continue, we have to at least try!”  Carter’s face was strained and twisted.

“Now is not the time, Carter.” Fusco was wearing his _drop it_ expression but Carter was staring him down.

“Did you see the last crime scene photos?” Carter shook her head and took another sip of her soda.

Harold blinked at them.  “Something the matter?”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Fusco said, giving him a jovial grin.

Carter rolled her eyes.  “Now that you mention it,” she gave Fusco a disapproving look, and turned sympathetic eyes to Harold and John.  “I hope you don’t mind if we talk a little shop, since we’re all here together.”

John and Harold shared a glance, and then both turned to Carter, expectantly.

Fusco gave a warning head shake at Carter, but she shrugged, and leaned forward.  “We’re investigating this … serial … case.”  Carter bit her lip as she tried to think of a way to describe it.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Harold said, sipping his drink.

“Don’t you mean serial killer?” Shaw asked, speaking around a large bite of hamburger, brow furrowed.

“So about five months ago, this guy turns up dead.”

“Shocking,” Shaw said, adding a fry to her already full mouth.

“But it wasn’t a murder, not exactly.  He doesn’t kill them himself, he just puts them in the position to die and makes them do it,” Carter kept going, “Have you guys read about the Jigsaw killings?”

John was lost in thought for a minute and then nodded, “Yea I remember something about that.  It was in the papers.  Something about a gruesome suicide but the cops found a Jigsaw piece cut out in the guy's flesh?”

Carter nodded.  “Not being a detective anymore, doesn’t mean I don’t want to catch a killer. I’ve been trying to help Fusco here, and Detective Tapp, on the case.  So far, we have nothing.”

Harold nodded, calculating.  “Well, I haven’t heard anything,” Harold said, carefully evading talk of the Machine.  “If the intent to murder isn’t there, it’s possibly too elusive for our sources. I am truly sorry we can’t seem to help further.”

Fusco and Carter looked at each other, and nodded.  Lionel cleared his throat.  “Thanks anyway, guys.  If anything shows up in that crystal ball of yours, you make sure to tell us whatever you hear.”

Harold nodded, and John said “Of course.”

The rest of the night was too brief but still enjoyable.  The others made it a game for Harold to open his gifts, one by one, most of which were sentimental.  Carter got him a nice vintage money clip with an engraving of a bird.  Shaw somehow managed to find an old copy of one of Finch’s favorite operas on vinyl, but made him promise not to play it when Shaw or John were in the room.  John stealthily handed him back the small box from before, which yielded a subway token key chain and nodded at Harold when he added it to his keys.  Fusco pulled out his present with a flourish, which turned out to be a ghastly novelty tie.  “I know you’re a snazzy dresser, so just let me know if you already got one of those; I’m sure I can always find something better.” He winked and gave a little eyebrow wiggle.  Harold shook his head and thanked him as gracefully as he could, holding up the kelly-green monstrosity that had “Lucky Tie” printed at the bottom in shamrocks, as if someone might forget what it was supposed to be.

The night came to a close and Harold made sure to tell everyone, personally, a fond goodbye.  The last person to leave, was John.  He buttoned up his coat, pretending that he didn’t see Harold looking at him out of the corner of his smiling face. 

“Did you have a nice time, Finch?”

Harold smiled wider.  “I did, thank you, Mr. Reese.”  He turned to hail a cab.  When the car approached the curb, he made an effort to leaned towards the taller man, conspiratorially, “This was one of the best birthdays I’ve had in a long time.”  

John nodded, and watched Harold’s cab as it pulled away, smirking to himself as he walked back to his apartment.

** February 10th, 2013 - 7:30PM **

Carter and Fusco headed back to the precinct.

“I just think it’s odd that they can’t help us out on this,” Fusco was saying.

“You didn’t even want me to talk about it Lionel, what right do you have to complain about it now?”

“I just didn’t want you to talk about it right _then_ , at the _party_.” He said, scanning the street.  “I didn’t want to ruin the mood.  Besides, spending one more minute thinking about those victims is enough to make me sick, especially the one that got away.  My God, that poor Amanda, and her mouth -”  

Carter closed her eyes and shook her head, asking silently for Fusco to drop it.  He huffed a little but put his hands in his pockets and let it go.

They both entered the precinct and parted ways with a little wave to each other.  Carter went to change out of her civvies and Fusco went to the back to check on Detective Tapp.

“David, what are you doing?”

Detective David Tapp was doing exactly what he was doing when Fusco left him but he thought it was important to make the man answer.  “Re-watching the evidence,” he said without looking up.  “Did you have fun at dinner?”

“It was a birthday party, actually.  And yea, it was a blast.”  Fusco looked over his shoulder.  Tapp was rewinding and playing back the same section of evidence footage that he’d been staring at when the other detective left over an two hours ago.  “Did you eat anything, Tapp?”

“Uh-huh,” David said, without really responding, leaning closer to the screen.  “Hey Fusco, where was that gang got busted a few weeks ago?  All their gang signs had this symbol, right?”  He paused the image and pointed at a yellow spray painted signature on the screen.  “Right there,” he said, looking over at Lionel.

“Oh yea, those wise guys,”  Fusco took a closer look.  “Wait a minute, didn’t they only have a small turf out in Brooklyn, just over the bridge?”

They both grabbed for their guns and badges at the same time, and made for the doors.  “Finally got a lead,” Fusco said as he was rocketing past Carter.  “Wish me luck!”

“Good luck,” Carter said, and turned to file away some paperwork.

** February 10th, 2013 - 8:30PM **

The warehouse was a shell of a building, a decaying skeleton. From the outside, it looked like even squatters wouldn't dare brave the treacherous facade. They entered through the far side, just in case. Once inside, the scene became more and more grim. Most of the windows were broken and the fading sunlight caught them at strange angles, casting terrifying shadows on the walls.  The walls themselves were grey exposed cement, with dark suspicious splatters. The floor was a mess of old papers, glass and dirt. For a moment, it seemed clear that no one had been here in a long time, but then they saw the freight elevator had power and lights at the far end of the hallway.

They took it up to a second floor.  There was power up here, too.  Lights at least.  While the place seemed just as messy, it appeared to be more organized.  They found a lot of trash that someone had arranged very specifically.  Dolls in dress up with make-shift doll houses or rooms.  Tarps hiding creepy terrible marionettes.

"Well, this is like something out of Dr. Seuss’ nightmare,” Fusco said, entering warily and moved from table to table.  “We shouldn't be here, Tapp, we need a warrant."

There were fences up and strange plans nailed to walls all around them.  "Probable cause," Tapp said.

“That’s a thin excuse, and you know it.”

Detective David Tapp took his gun out and began sweeping the room.  “Head in the game, Fusco, come on.”

A metal sheet clattered in the back of the room.  Fusco took the left and Tapp took the right.  “See anything?” Fusco whispered.

“Nothing,” Tapp said.  He moved forward into what looked like a closet.  There was a black robe, a red robe, and in the middle was some medical equipment.  Fusco peered in at him.

“This is enough, Tapp, we should get out of here.”

“This was what Dr. Gordon was hiding, look at the machines!” David said, trying to find any additional clues.  The medical equipment was from Dr. Gordon’s hospital, and he let out a little yelp of triumph.

“And what are you going to say when he shows up and we’re snooping around in his stuff, tough guy.  We need a better plan.  Let’s come back with – a – warrant.”

Tapp gave a frustrated sigh and stopped what he was doing, his shoulders slumped.  “Ok, Fusco, you win, let’s – ” a metal sheet came slamming shut between them.  Tapp banged on it with his gun, but felt a sharp pain and suddenly everything when black.

“ _Detectives, how good of you to come on such short notice,_ ” a deep distorted voice came over some kind of loud speaker, echoing through the warehouse.  It was the same voice from the recordings that were recovered from the Jigsaw crime scenes.  Fusco’s hair stood on end.

“David?” Fusco shouted, coming over and hitting on whatever crashed down to separate them.  “Tapp, answer me!”

“ _Hello, Lionel.  I’ve been especially interested in your rise through the ranks of the N.Y.P.D._ ”

He clutched his gun tightly and turned on the spot.  “Well then, I’m sure you’ll be over the moon about my fist rising through your jaw as soon as I get out of here.”

The lights went out.

“ _Oh, Detective Fusco, I think you’ll find I’m quite an agreeable person, once you get to know me.  I can’t wait for us to have a little one on one time.  But I’m afraid that will have to wait.  Good night, Detective._ ”

** February 11th, 2013 - 5:30AM **

“Good Morning, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, opening the door for John, who followed him into the main area of the library.  There was a wonderful spread of sweets and savories on the table and a fresh pot of coffee side by side with Harold’s tea.  The newspapers were also arranged so that John could have his pick.

“Morning, Finch.” He said, putting his coat away and admiring the spread.

Harold waited by his seat for John to sit first, expectantly.

“You know, Harold, you didn’t have to do this.”  John said, looking over the spread and then back to him.  “It was your birthday yesterday, and it should go without saying that you could use some spoiling from time to time, without the need to return the favor.”

Harold blinked and looked hurt.  “Are you going to accept my thanks, or do I have to give Bear your portions?”  Harold sat down with a mock huff.  Bear whimpered in the corner, licking his chops.

John smiled at him, “Whatever you say, Finch,” and they enjoyed the uneventful morning together in companionable silence.

Finch took bear out for his morning walk and returned with their new number.  “Business as usual, it’s a wonder we didn’t get disturbed last night,” John said stretching and finishing the last of his coffee.

“The numbers never do stop,” Finch said, as he sat at the computer console. 

“John?  John, you there?” Joss came through on his earwig, a little too frantic.

“Carter?  What’s wrong?”

“Oh, John, thank god!”  She said.  She was breathing heavily and Reese could hear scuffling and jostling, as if she was running around.  “John look, I need your help.  Tapp and Fusco went to try and lure out the Jigsaw killer.  Tapp’s in the hospital, but Fusco’s missing.  No one has any idea where he is, and Tapp’s unconscious.  Please John, we need you on this.”

John looked to Harold and he nodded, giving him silent permission to leave. 

“I’m on my way Joss, don’t worry,” and he grabbed his coat.

** February 12, 2013 - 9AM **

John was waiting in the library for Finch.  He absently let a hand trail over the books and refilled Bear’s water dish, giving him a scratch behind the ear.  “I know, boy, I miss him too.”  The door opened and Harold walked in.  He looked tired and overdrawn, his suit only slightly muddled. 

“Good morning, Mr. Reese,” he said, practically yawning.

“Finch,” John said nodding.  “No luck hacking into that hard drive last night?”

Harold shook his head and wearily went to his desk.  “Maybe if someone hadn’t damaged it, I might have –“ Harold dropped it once he saw the look on John’s face.  “We will find the good detective, Mr. Reese.  All in due time.  However, this morning we have a new number.”

Harold plugged in the number and went suddenly very still.  “Oh my,” he whispered.  He was staring at the screen, eyes wide, mouth agape.

“Who is it, Finch?” John walked over to the desk and peered over his shoulder.

John blinked.  He was staring at… well, at Harold.  “One of your aliases, I suspect?”

Harold moved the chair back and looked at John, “That’s not me,” he said, his voice small and shaking. 

John looked back at the screen.  The man there was most assuredly Harold.  No glasses sure, in a laughable t-shirt and a ridiculous smirk in place, and maybe he looked a little younger, but this was Harold, it had to be.  

“You’re pulling my leg, Finch,” John glanced at him sideways.  “Just because you weren’t stealthy enough to hide your birthday, doesn’t mean -” John squinted at the screen, “Look this guy even has the same date.”

Harold’s face went very pale and he put a hand to his mouth.  He stood up.  “I have no idea who this man is, Mr. Reese.” He said sternly, pointing at the screen and leaning on the desk, “But I can assure you, with one hundred percent certainty, that _he’s not me_.  I’ve never been this …” he squinted, “Mr. Turlough Hindle.” He stumbled over the name and gave a terrified little chuckle.  “I was _never_ this person!”

John looked from Harold to the screen.  “Alright, Finch, I believe you.  But if that’s true, then who the hell is this guy?”

“I’ve no idea, Mr. Reese.”


	2. Happy Birthday, Zep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A window into Zep Hindle's life and more backstory on the Jigsaw case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I can't stress enough that you need to pay attention to the time stamps on this fic! 
> 
> Please. It will only help you.

******November 3rd, 2012 - 4PM**

“King me,” John Kramer said, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“Ah, there it is,” Zep shook his head.  “I don’t think I’ll ever beat you.”

“You should stop letting me win, Zep.” Kramer said, but his stern look was interrupted by a coughing fit.  Zep didn’t ask if he was alright.  There was no point, Kramer was never going to be alright again.  

He smirked instead.  “Maybe if we play Chess, that’s more my game, I’ll really let you have it.  But we agreed, Checkers today.”

Kramer’s eyes narrowed, waiting for his chance to strike.  He gave a satisfied little _ha_ when he asked to be kinged again and Zep shook his head in mock outrage, resetting the board.

The smell of antiseptic, failing to mask entirely the undercurrent of urine and other bodily fluids, was thicker today, and Zep always noticed that it made Kramer cough more than usual.  It was why he had moved their normal game day festivities out into the cafeteria, but that apparently wasn’t far enough.  Maybe Kramer was just too susceptible.

*

**ARCHIVES**

Everyone seemed to treat Zep, at best, lukewarm and, at worst, like he stole their child somehow.  Most people gave him more than his share of personal space when he walked down the hallways or when he took his seat in the cafeteria.  

It had always been that way.  Nothing really changed.

His foster parents had never understood him either. He knew his mother loved him.  She, at least, made an effort.  His father was always a little harder to read.  They’d butted heads more than Zep cared to talk about, even with someone as good a listener as Kramer.  Still, Zep was surprised how easily he was able to talk about his father with Kramer, though he was very careful to keep the conversations light.  

“Did I ever tell you about Mr. Hindles’ irrational hatred of my chosen nickname over his given one?" Zep helped Kramer get during one painful rehab position.

The cancer patient enjoyed talk about Zep’s life most when he was in pain. Zep felt obliged to indulge him. "Apparently Turlough was his grandfather’s name from the old country.  I never met him.  ‘A very great man,’ my father used to tell me."

He waited and counted the breaths to make sure Kramer held the stretch for as long as he was supposed to.  He gave him a little tap on the shoulder so Kramer could relax when the time was up.  "I mean; it means something.  I looked it up once.  Celtic, I think.  Something like, ‘giver.’  And who could disagree with that?”

Kramer was leaning against a counter for a respite.  He huffed out an agreement and Zep moved his leg a little more carefully to relax the muscle.  “I just wanted the kids and the teachers not to stumble over it all the time,” Zep said, letting the frustration show in his voice.

Once Kramer was resting, he told him how much he thought the name, Zep, suited him much more anyway.  Zep smiled.  

Despite their continued misgivings, he never held the fact that he was a weird kid against his parents.  He always wondered if he wasn’t going to be missing a crucial piece of the Zep puzzle for the rest of his life regardless, being an adopted child.

Of course, maybe he was overthinking it.  He did that a lot too.  

Like why, as the baby of his “family” did he never actually want to leave home the way the other kids did.  His older siblings all fled the nest before finishing high school.  He suspected it was because they wanted to be as far away from _him_ as possible.  

Especially Karen, his “sister”; a brash girl who got into trouble and, most times, tried to blame him for it. She knew their father was always looking for a reason to punish Zep, but there was one particular indiscretion that Zep refused to take a beating for.  He proved to his father that ‘it had to be Karen’ and he was off the hook.  He'd felt relief, even as he could hear her wailing from the other side of the house.  

They barely spoke after that.

But what mattered more than the indifference of his siblings, or the harshness of his father, was how sad it made his mother when they left.  So, he decided to stay behind to care for his parents.  His father was the first to go, thankfully.  A heart attack, a small favor.

Ironically, his degree in home and hospital care, which his parents always thought was beneath him, became most convenient when his mother was in her last months.

“You shouldn’t have to do this,” she would say, as he spoon fed her soup, changed her bedding and washed her clothes.  He’d blush, measuring out her medications for the week, and shrug.  Every night he would tell his mother he loved her, then turn on an old movie for her to watch while he did a crossword.

Her funeral was tough.  Only one brother showed and it wasn’t the one he liked much.  Jacob.  He was always looking for an angle; the type to show up to his mother’s funeral, sniffing round for money left behind.   Zep made quick work of him, making sure he wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the family home.  The rest of the kids, he would never know if word reached them of their parents death.  How could he tell them if they didn’t keep in touch enough to update their addresses and phone numbers?

After her death, he felt aimless.  He made sure the affairs were in order, sold everything, and after talking to a lawyer, he kept it (the money) for himself.  

So began his years of puttering around from place to place, finally landing a ‘great job’ in a New York hospital just north of the city.  He was living in a fleabag hotel for a year, with so many transient belongings that he really didn’t feel the need to grow roots. 

In fact, he didn’t get a permanent apartment until one was left to him by a grateful patient.  It came as a complete shock to him to actually have a real address, and he moved his meager belongings into the space shortly after Richard Nelson passed away.  The old walk up three flights was all paid off, and Zep was so grateful the first time he unlocked the door and strode inside.  

 _No one cares about me,_ Richard Nelson had said.  Zep shook his head but Nelson covered Zep’s hands with his own, _This isn’t the time for lying, Zep, I know this is true.  Of everyone in my life…_  Nelson’s eyes filled with tears briefly. _Except you, Zep.  You’ve been so kind to me.  I hope I can do this small kindness for you._

He didn’t know where the time went, and all of a sudden one year turned into five and turned into fifteen.  He went to work, he came home.  There was wear and tear in the stones of the sidewalk, where Zep went to the garage for his car and down to the bodega on the corner, with the occasional trip to the movies or walking to the candy store to get his favorite licorice.  

He didn’t do much with his spare time.  The savings piled up, but Zep couldn’t seem to think of anything to do with the money.  Zep watched after the patients he got close to, as they came and went, and Zep stayed constant.

Which is how he met John Kramer one day, doing a crossword. Kramer had asked him what a five-letter word for “fake” was.  

“Mmm, starts with?” Zep had asked.

“P.” Kramer said, drowsily.

“Phony?”

Kramer had smiled, “That works!” and filled it in.  As Zep was turning to leave, Kramer asked him to stay a while.  “If I’m not asleep, just sitting here gets so boring.”

John Kramer was the most interesting dying man Zep Hindle had ever met.  In all the time he spent with him, Zep noticed he never waxed sentimental about anything.  Zep found that endlessly fascinating.  He had no discernable family; no wife, no kids, no siblings.  He had no pets, no friends.  Zep could relate.  

Kramer did ask Zep a lot about his upbringing though, which made Zep increasingly more comfortable talking about his boring life.  “You might get jealous, old man, when you hear about my exciting exploits as a mundane child and even more ordinary orderly,” and Kramer would laugh.  

Zep liked making the patients laugh. He supposed his chosen profession was the only thing that brought him any modicum of happiness.  And he preferred Kramer’s company to everyone else in the hospital, and probably everyone else in his whole life.  

**December 12** **th** **, 2012 – 10AM**

“Oh man,” Fusco dismayed, covering his mouth and stepping into the room after forensics cleared out.  

“Smells like barbeque,” Tapp said, frowning and looking at all the crudely drawn numbers on the wall.

Fusco threw his hands up.  “Thank you for that!”  he said.  A thick layer of broken glass crunched under his shoes.  It would be bad news tripping in this horror show.

“Latest victim.  We found him burnt to a crisp.” Detective Kerry said, nodding at Tapp and Fusco.  

She picked up the tape recorder and pressed play.  

 _“Hello, Mark.”_ The voice was distorted, but matched the perp the papers were calling “Jigsaw.” 

“ _If you are so sick, then why do I have so many photos of you up and about? Let's put your so-called "illness" to the test._ ”

The tape continued.   _“Right now, there's a slow acting poison in your veins. The antidote is inside the safe; the combination to the safe is written on the wall. Hurry up and program it in, but watch your step. By the way, that's a flammable substance smeared on your body, so I would be careful with that candle if I were you... or all the people you've burned with your act just might have their revenge.”_

David and Lionel walked around the small cell-like room.  The concrete had numbers written all over it and everything smelled like gasoline.  The pictures were strewn everywhere, some too fire-damaged to interpret.

“And look at this,” Kerry said, bringing them over to a hole in the wall.  “Apparently, the assailant likes to watch.  

Fusco shook his head.  “Man, I can’t wait to get this guy.  Can’t catch this psycho fast enough.  There’s enough trash in this city.”

“Speaking of trash,” Kerry smirked.  “He left something behind this time.”  She held up a, evidence bag with small penlight in it.  “We’re gonna run the prints, but I think you should bring this guy in.”

Tapp took the bag from her and read the name on the side.  “Thanks, Detective.  Come on Lionel, let’s go pay a visit to Dr. Gordon.”

**December 12** **th** **, 2012 – 2PM**

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” Zep stomped into Dr. Lawrence Gordon’s office.

“What you were doing,” Gordon followed him in, closing the door behind them and taking his place at his desk, “Was undermining my authority, Zep.  We’ve talked about this.”

Zep crossed his arms, looking at his shoes.  “What, so you’ll write me up?”

Gordon sighed and thought for a moment.  “No, Zep.  I’m not going to do anything.  I would just really appreciate it if you didn’t do that in the future.”

Zep hated being patronized; eyes narrowed and shoulders squared.  “This is because of the other night, isn’t it?”

Gordon’s blue eyes turned guileless.  “What are you talking about?”

“When I was working late and _ran into you_ ,” Zep said, his gaze unblinkingly.  He could see Gordon’s facade crack just a little, and Zep swallowed hard.  “Haven’t seen Cathy Drucker in a while, how is _she_ Dr. Gordon?” he asked, wanting to test how far this would go.

Gordon’s eyes narrowed at the mention of one of the nurses who’d recently transferred.  “That’s enough, Zep.”

“I guess you wouldn’t know either,” Zep’s leg started to shake as he finally looked Gordon in the eye.  “Can’t even bother to call a patient by their name, as long as you’re not embarrassed in front of some new conquest –”

“I said that’s enough!” Gordon slammed down his patient file.  His face flushed red

Zep flinched as if the other man had struck him, dropping his gaze to the floor.  He moved his mouth as if trying to piece together why he’d even said that at all.

Dr. Gordon sighed and swallowed, pinching his nose.  “Let’s just drop it, before I do something I’ll regret,” he said, quietly. “You may go.”

Zep froze, his posture more like a frightened child than an adult.  Finally, after a little nod, he kept his head down and struggled for a moment to find the doorknob.  

He bumped into two men in suits standing at Dr. Gordon’s door.  “Sorry,” he said, absently wiping his eyes.  He staggered a few feet away, and turned to watch as Dr. Gordon welcomed the two strangers into his office.  The two men looked at each other, back at Zep, and introduced themselves as detectives to the doctor.  He saw Gordon run his hand through his hair nervously, before extending it to the detectives.  

Zep walked along the corridor, his feet heavy and panting.  He felt nauseous.  He stopped to catch his breath at the triage station, put his head down on the table, and counted to ten.

“You ok, Zep?”

Looking up, Zep saw Kramer, blinking down at him, carrying a box.  He was in his regular clothes, but a little worse for wear; he’d needed two treatments that day instead of one.  

It was one of the reasons that Dr. Gordon was showing him to the residency doctors in the first place, because his case was truly _unique_.  

Zep swallowed the lump in his throat and gave him a sympathetic smile, still angry that Dr. Gordon had refused to call him by his name.  “John, hi.  Yes, I'm fine.  Just got a little winded.”

Kramer smiled at him, revealing a wooden box he’d had tucked under his arm.  “Chess today, Zep, I did promise.” They walked together to a waiting area and Kramer plunked down the chess set, finely polished and cared for, nudging it in Zep’s direction.

He opened the chest with wonder.  The pieces were finely carved stone; heavy, weighted, and glistening.  “Kramer, this is lovely,” he said, barely able to keep himself from closely inspecting each and every piece.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”  He said, watching Zep reverently set them up for him at their usual place.  “It was my dad’s.  Why don’t you take a moment with them; I’m going to get us some coffee.”

Zep shook his head, “That’s my job, Kramer, let me.”  Zep got up immediately, smiling happily as Kramer took his seat.

When he came back, Zep nudged his Styrofoam cup against Kramer’s and gave him a wink.  He savored his coffee almost as much as he enjoyed the game.  Zep held nothing back this time, and creamed the other man, trying his best not to look smug when he won.  Kramer sat back, clapping his hands and smiling, “Now this, is a game.  Let’s go again.”

“How is everything, John?”  Dr. Gordon said, suddenly appearing next to Kramer with the two detectives behind him.

“I’m good, Doctor, thank you.  Feeling weak of course, but that is to be expected.  Zep here likes to keep me entertained.”

Lawrence looked over at Zep, nodding.  “We’re lucky to have him.”  Lawrence cleared his throat and said resolutely, “Sorry about before, Zep.  No hard feelings?” and extended his hand.

Zep shook it, keeping silent, with only a curt nod to the doctor, who then smiled insincerely, and moved away from them out of the hospital.

Kramer peered after them.  “Who were they?”

Zep turned to make sure they were out the door before answering.  “I think they were cops,” he said, turning back around slowly and giving a little shrug.  “Maybe Dr. Gordon’s in trouble.”

Kramer gave a breathy laugh, looking after where they’d gone.  “It’s always the quiet ones,” he said, shaking his head and locking eyes with Zep, “Isn’t it?”

Zep gave Kramer’s hand a playful slap, remembered to do it on the one without a bruise, and reset the board.  They played for the better part of the afternoon.  

**December 12** **th** **, 2012 – 7PM**

“Well, Dr. Gordon, your alibi checks out,” Detective Fusco said, coming back into the small office.  “And uh, don’t worry, we don’t have to tell your wife.”  The disgust plain on Lionel’s face.  

Gordon flushed.  “Great,” he said, clearing his throat.  “Can I go now?  I’d really like to just go home.”  Gordon sounded tired, already reaching for his coat.

Detective Tapp came in the door behind him, using his height to nod that he stay seated.  Fusco cleared his throat and took a seat.  “There’s just one more thing we need you to see.”  Tapp sat on the opposite side of Gordon, as if they expected him to bolt.

He turned to look at a two-way mirror Gordon hadn’t even noticed until now.  He was looking through to an interrogation cell.  Carter was bringing in a brunette woman with red scarring around her mouth.  

“Amanda,” Carter said, gently.  She pressed record on a little taping device on the desk.  “We appreciate you coming down to give us your statement.  State your name.”

“Amanda Young,” she said, in a whispery voice.  

Carter nodded, “In your own time, tell me the first things you remember.”  

Gordon was horrified but intrigued.  He had no idea who this woman was but she’d obviously survived something horrendous.  He felt himself leaning forward in his chair.

Amanda spoke softly with her head down.  “I don’t remember how I got there.  The last thing I remember was being home alone in my apartment and then I just … woke up and all I could taste was blood.  And metal.  I was sitting in a chair, like an old barbershop chair or a dentist’s chair?” Her hands lifted briefly to her lips, but she didn’t touch them.  “And I had this thing… A reverse bear trap, the video said.”

“Video?  Can you describe that for me?”  Carter said, as softly as she could manage.

She shook her head slightly and continued.  “After I tried to scream and move, then a television came on.”

Carter wasn’t making any notes.  The recorder seemed to be doing most of the work.  She seemed to just sit and listen.  “Where was the television?”

“Right in front of the chair,” she said, swallowed convulsively, reaching for a glass of water.  She couldn’t lift the pitcher, so Carter poured it for her.  

“And then?”

She stiffened, picking up the cup and resuming her story.   “The tape was grainy, and there was a … puppet.”  She stammered through.  “It told me I would die if I didn’t get that thing off my head.  That I had to … find the key.”  She seemed to hyperventilate and slowly count backwards from ten before continuing.

Fusco worked his shoulders, and turned to Lawrence.  “You see, Dr. Gordon, she had to dig into the body of a man also in the same room to find the key to unlock the device.  Jigsaw had told her that the body was dead.  But that wasn’t the case.”  Fusco watched him closely.

“What do you -”

“He was doped up,” Tap filled in.  “Coroner says e probably didn’t feel a thing.  Still, he was awake when she started digging into -”

Gordon held up a hand.  “Stop, stop.  Please, you think I …”

Fusco turned his attention back to Amanda.

Carter was still looking with her sympathetic eyes.  Amanda swallowed and whispered in that same voice, “He … helped me.”

Gordon let out an involuntary gasp and turned away.  “I’d like, very much, to go home now.”  He said, locking eyes with Tapp, who’s smug little grin made him almost as sick as Amanda’s testimony.

“Of course… Doctor.”  

Detective Tapp personally escorted Gordon and took him home.  Fusco caught up with Carter when she came out of the interrogation room.  “Thanks for helping us out on that, Carter.  It really brought some insight to the forefront on our suspect.”

Carter blinked at him.  “What?”

Fusco sighed, “Tapp wanted to have Gordon watch the interrogation.”

Carter’s eyes were practically bulging out of her head.

Fusco smirked.  “And this is why I didn’t tell you.”

Carter looked where Gordon and Tapp had just left.  “Tapps idea?”

Fusco nodded.

“I just don’t know about that guy.  Makes me itchy.  Watch him, and watch you’re ass, Fusco ok?”

**December 13** **th** **, 2012 – 12PM**

“Allison, I’m fine,” he said, putting on his suit.  “They didn’t charge me with anything, everything’s going to be fine.”

Dr. Gordon’s wife just stared at him.  “I think you should still take the day off, it’s a terrible thing that happened to you.”

“If I don’t show up to work, then I’ll look guilty.”  He kissed her on the cheek and left.

*

He didn’t go to work, he called Cathy and spent the day with her in a hotel.  He returned home well after one am, kissed his daughter good night and carefully crawled into bed with his wife.

**February 10th, 2013 - 3PM**

Birthdays were always hard for Zep.  Thankfully, the hospital seemed to forget this year, which was fine with him.  The staff always used the occasion as an excuse to have cake, and it wouldn't have been in his real birthday anyway, since he always took the date off.

Zep wandered through his small apartment, taking care of chores and tidying. He surveyed his kingdom and frowned, wondering idly if this was going to be "it." He decided to take a late afternoon walk to clear his head. He walked all the way up, through Union Square, and made it to Herald Square, but still felt down.  He turned and walked back.

This year was especially tough since he was turning fifty three, the same age as his father when he died.  Zep blamed the melancholy when he suddenly found himself walking into a liquor store and, uncharacteristically, purchasing a bottle of something cheap on the way home.

He never drank.  He walked into his apartment and half heartedly slammed down the bottle in it’s bag and stared at it for two whole minutes.  Resolutely, he poured himself the approximation of a shot and downed it quickly, pouring himself another one before he had time to think about it. He gasped through the burn and hitched sobs he could feel in the back of his throat.  

He tried not to think about his mom, but like the tears sliding down his cheeks, the thoughts came unbidden.  He downed another two drinks as he began remembering the way she cooked breakfast and her out of tune humming whenever Zep was sick.

“I tried, Mom,” he said, his eyes clenched tightly.  “I like you think you’d be proud of me.”

He wobbled for a little while, disoriented and using the walls to steady himself, before he crashed into his bed, promptly passing out in his clothes.  He would dream about his mom, her warmth and decency, but would inevitably plunge into nightmares that he wouldn’t remember.

**February 11th, 2013 - 4AM**

Zep’s eyes struggled open with his blaring alarm.  He smashed at the nightstand a couple of times before finally crushing all the buttons and the noise finally stopped.  He groaned.  Rolling over and bringing his hands up to his face, he gently massaged his eyebrows, moving his hands over and over his head.  

Sighing, he swung himself up into a sitting position. The room spun.

He cursed in the shower, forgetting completely that the building was shutting off the hot water for the second time that week.  He shivered as he quickly got dressed, shaved hastily, and made sure his scrubs were in his bag.  He lightly toasted a slice of bread and brewed some coffee in a travel mug, before heading out to his car.  

It was a long drive, but as with most early shifts, at least no one else was on the road to disturb him.

*

The hospital was always quiet at this time and he was thankful there were no loud sounds to make the headache worse.  He drank two glasses of water and took some aspirin, doing his best to wake up.  

He changed, and sorted out his tasks for the day, making sure the storage rooms were fully stocked and checking all the messenger centers before doing anything else.  He was one of two orderlies, who set everything up first thing in the morning, and thankfully he didn’t run into him as he set up his day.  He didn’t have to talk to anyone for the next several hours, and he preferred the quiet.

He worked his way through the medical appointments for the day and pulled all the charts, sorting them by appointment time.  He left them carefully organized on each receptionist’s desk and went on with his duties.  

**February 11th, 2013 – 3PM**

Joss got into her squad car and put her head on the steering wheel, breathing deeply.

“You look like you haven’t slept, Carter,” John said, sympathetically.  She didn’t even flinch when she realized he’d gotten into the car with him.  

“So glad you noticed,” Carter said, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry.  We’ll find him.”

She picked up her head and leaned back.  “But this isn’t like one of your other jobs, John.  This is a really bad guy.”

John’s face turned to stone.  “And I can’t wait to introduce myself, but right now we have to play it smart.”

They’d looked everywhere.  They pieced together that the Detectives had gone to the warehouse, which they combed thoroughly, only finding some discarded dolls and plans that made no sense.  They went back through every crime scene photo, every testimony, and every witness account.

Joss turned to look at him.  “Fusco doesn’t have time.  Jigsaw’s smart.  He’ll figure out how long it will take to kill him and do it efficiently, cleanly.  It’s almost been a whole day, and no one –”

“We’ll get him, Carter,” John said, as if that was the end of it.  

“I think David’s awake.  I’m going to the hospital now to talk to him.”

John nodded, unable to really add anything, so he left the car and quickly turned the corner.

**February 12th, 2013 – 9:10AM**

Harold _was_ pacing.  John gave a few half hearted attempts to talk sense to him, but he was already checking his watch.

“Somewhere you have to be, Mr. Reese?”

“Harold, I need to know where you want me to be.  I promised Carter I’d check up on Lee, make sure he was in school.  We can send Shaw, if you prefer?”

Harold shook his head and shooed him towards the door. “I’ll enlist Shaw on this one.  Mr. Hindle works in a hospital; she’s an easier _in_ for undetected surveillance in this case.  Go,” Harold was already typing away on his computer.  He paused briefly and said, “Please make sure Lee is safe, and do let me know if I can be of any assistance with Detective Fusco’s disappearance.”

John couldn’t help but notice how pale he’d gotten.  “I can stay, Finch.”

“John,” Harold said, gripping the desk, slightly.  “I’ll be fine.  Please, go,” not letting John interrupt his obvious call to Sameen.  “Miss Shaw?  I’m afraid I’m in need of your assistance.  Please come to the library at once, I’ll explain when you get here.”  John reluctantly left the library and turned on the GPS locator for Lee’s cell phone.  He made his way to his school to make sure he was in class before contacting Carter to resume the search.


	3. Follow Your Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Tapp hires a private eye to investigate the good doctor, and Zep goes on a date.

**February 11, 2013 – 7PM**

Carter walked into the hospital downtown.

Flashing her badge, she asked at the front desk for Detective Tapp’s room.  She wasn’t even halfway down the hall when she heard the Police Chief yelling.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing here Tapp, but Fusco is _missing_ ,” the Police Chief said.

Slowing down, she made eye contact with the patrol guard on the door.  He made a _you don’t want to come any closer_ signal with his hand, and she stopped completely.

“It was Dr. Gordon, I know it was, there was medical equipment at the warehouse!  You need to check the –”

“There was _nothing_ at the warehouse, Tapp!”  The Police Chief slammed down a fist and Carter heard a plastic cup go flying.

Everything went quiet for a minute.  She held her breath.

Finally, she heard the Police Chief say, in a quieter but no less angry tone, “You are suspended.  I need your badge and your weapon.  Once you’re released, which should be in a few hours, I want you to go home and stay there.  Is that clear?”

There was some scuffling as Carter assumed Tapp was searching his belongings.  “Yes,” he said, tightly.  “Y-Yes, sir.  I completely understand.”  She bit her lip, knowing his face must have been twisted in resigned agony.

The Police Chief left and stalked down the hallway, nodding at Carter.

Carter took a few deep breaths and went into the room.  She kept her face carefully sympathetically neutral, the face she showed to grieving widows.  It hurt Carter to see Tapp in such a state.  

His hospital gown was soaked through with sweat and there was a flurry of activity from the nurses in the room as they made additional checks and markings about his condition.  They didn’t even notice Carter had come in, and probably hadn’t even flinched when the Police Chief had made his point.

“David?  You ok?”

“What did you find, Carter?”  Tapp said, his eyes more hopeful than his whispering.

“Nothing,” Carter said.

“It was there, in the closet, did you –”

“We looked everywhere, David.  We found the closet but it was cleaned out.  Whoever hurt you and - Well, he didn’t leave anything for us to find, I’m sorry.”

Tapp hung his head.

Carter came over to sit on the edge of his bed and reached for his hand.  “I swept that place with only my most… trusted colleagues,” she swallowed, seeing Reese’s face in her mind’s eye.  “Trust me, they’re the best.  If there was anything to be found, we’d already have found it.”

Tapp looked exhausted.  “Thanks, Carter.  Fusco’s out there somewhere because of me.  He wanted to go back, but I...”  Carter shook her head and squeezed his hand. He paused, smiling sadly at her.  He took out his phone.  “I really need to get myself together so they can discharge me.”  He looked up from his phone, pleading a little.

“Of course,” Carter said, and stood up.  “I’ll come by your house later to check on you?”

*

Tapp nodded and smiled, shooing her out of the hospital room.  When Carter had finally left, Tapp pulled up the number for the force's own private investigator and punched the call button.

After a few rings, there was a crackling and then a very distinctly annoyed, _Yes?_

“Is this Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight?”

_Who wants to know?_

“This is Detective Tapp, Adam, you helped us out on a case a few weeks back.  I need you to tail someone…”

David listened to crackling static and then Adam's voice came back, _Ready when you are detective._

"Dr. Lawrence Gordon."

_And what am I looking for?_

"I just need to know his whereabouts for the next couple days," Tapp said, letting his fingers test the flesh under the bandage on his head. He winced, but not greatly. "If what I suspect will happen happens, well, you'll know it, and you call me, you understand? Not the police, you call me direct!"

There was a pause, and then, _You know my account number, detective?_

"The money will be in your name tonight."

_I'll send updates and call if anything happens_ , and the line went dead.

**February 12, 2013 – 11AM**

He did his best to stay out of everyone's way, and work in peace, but the morning dragged on.  Zep wasn’t so much tired as he was... done… with everything.

He walked down to the first floor of the hospital and grabbed a mop to get on with his day, nearly running into a petite woman with shiny black hair and a killer gaze, her lab coat a little too white, crisp and new.

“I’m so sorry,” Zep said, trying to make himself small to get out of her way, his head down, his hands at his sides.

She stopped in front of him and looked shocked.  “Don’t worry about it,” she said sounding distracted.  He heard the clicking as her heels made their way further down the hall.  When they were distant enough, he picked up his head, shaking a little.

**February 12, 2013 – 7PM**

“I’m telling you Harold, he’s… boring,” Shaw said, biting into a sandwich.  She was in a car on the upper level of a parking lot across the street from Mr. Hindle’s apartment, the heat turned on full blast, and a camera at the ready to snap pictures.

_I understand it may appear that way,_ Harold replied.   _But we got his number –_

“For a reason, I know.”  Shaw rolled her eyes.  “There was a while there I thought someone had just stolen your identity," she took another bite of her sandwich. "But seeing him in full Technicolor?  This is really creepy, Finch.”

_Agreed, Miss Shaw._

Harold’s voice was tightly controlled, but Sameen could tell he was unnerved.  She picked up the camera and grabbed a couple of shots.  Zep cooking dinner.  Zep sweeping up the living room.  Zep watching sports in an old tee shirt, drinking a beer.  She snorted and sent that picture to Harold, with a little text that said, “Sorry, not sorry.”

_I’m glad you’re having fun._

“I regret nothing,” Shaw said, and smirked at his exasperated chuckle.  “You need to relax, Finch –”

_That's not going to happen, Miss Shaw,_ Harold said, quietly.  If she listened closely, she could have sworn she heard him grinding his teeth.

“… And Zep’s going to bed,” Shaw said, watching him tuck himself in and hit the light switch on the wall.  Turning off her camera and stuffing the last of the sandwich into her mouth, Shaw spoke around her food.  “Has there been any new developments from Reese?”

_None that I’ve heard,_ Harold said, letting the disappointment show in his tone.

“I think I’d like to check in with him, personally, and see how the search is going.  Any other orders?”

_Be sure to get some rest, you’re going to be taking the early shift with Zep again in the morning._

“Can’t… wait…” Shaw said, turning over the engine in the car and driving back downtown to meet up with Reese.

**February 13, 2013 – 5AM**

Checking his rearview mirror, Zep shook his head as the car he thought he saw blinked out of existence. He barked a laugh and returned his attention to the road.

**February 13, 2013 – 2PM**

He was on his hands and knees, cleaning up the puke and bile of a patient who’d “been fine just a moment ago.”  The nurse brought the poor man back to his room and asked Zep to clean up the mess.  He didn’t mind so much, except that he was having no luck with the mop.  This was the reason he was prostrate on the floor when his least favorite hospital administrator found him, really needing to get the bits that had rolled in-between the wall and the floor near the gratings.

“Zep!”

“Yes, Mr. Snyder,” he said from the floor, continuing to wipe what he could with disinfectant.

“Get up, Zep,” he commanded, tapping his foot.

Zep sighed, “I can’t, I’m sorry.  If I do –” there was a sharp stomp right near Zep’s hand.  Zep stood up, his clothes dripping and wet.  “Is there something you need?”

“The toilets are clogged on the main level, it's disgusting. The patients are complaining, I need you to go up there right this minute."

Zep blinked at the other man's shoulder, willing him to take in his appearance, or at least his smell.  "I should finish here first."

Mr. Snyder looked daggers at him. "You'll go where I tell you to go!"

Zep looked at the ceiling. "I'd like to finish up here," he repeated, "if that's _ok_ with the rich plastic surgery patients on the main level."

Mr. Snyder's lip curled. "Zep, what's gotten into you lately?  I will not stand for this insub -"

"Maybe he's tired of cleaning up your shit," came an unfamiliar voice.

Zep glanced over to see the face of the same woman he'd nearly bumped into the day before, as she moved herself between Zep and the other man.  He coward from both of them, a reflex.

Mr. Snyder seemed to recover faster than Zep.  "I beg your pardon -"

"I'm sorry, what I meant to say," and she got in very close to Mr. Snyder, letting her voice go low and sharp. "Is that _you_ are going to let _him_ do his job."

"Am I?" The administrator asked, trying, and failing, to keep up his authoritative tone.

The woman took a step back, the strained control palpable in her voice. "He needs to finish up here and then clean himself up.  You should go back to your office and do whatever it is you do, and send someone from the janitorial staff."

"You can't talk to me that -"

"You don't have any authority over this man; he works for the _doctors_ here.  If the patients on the main floor are in such dire need, then maybe _you_ should get a _plunger_."

Zep had never seen Mr. Snyder turn as red as he was right now, even as the small crowd of hospital personnel was gathering to see what was happening.

The woman never flinched.

Finally, he gave in and stomped away.

Zep kept staring at the floor, watching his steps recede, and when he turned to thank the woman, she was already walking briskly in the other direction.

The others who'd gathered moved away from him in their usual fashion, but he continued watching after her until she turned a corner.  He went back down on his hands and knees to finish his work, finding that his heart was racing.

*

_Miss Shaw!_ She could actually hear the panic in Finch's voice. _What possessed you!?_

"He looks just like you, Harold," was the only thing she had to say. Anyone listening to her might have thought she sounded vaguely sad.  The line went quiet and she did not break stride.

**February 13, 2013 – 4:30PM**

Zep clocked out, and rolled his shoulders.  It had been a long day and he wasn’t really looking forward to more nothing at home so he took his time leaving.

He changed his clothes, putting on the t-shirt, jeans, old college hoodie and a leather jacket.  He checked his pockets, making sure he had his keys and felt something heavy.  He palmed it trying to decide what it was, but before he could check, he heard someone coming into the locker room.

“Hello!”  came a female voice.

“Hello?” Zep called.  “Just a minute,” he quickly gathered his backpack and closed his locker.  He peered around the wall.

“I’m,” she started, looking stiff.  She stood there, blinking at him, unable to continue speaking.

Zep came closer to her, his whole face brightening, as he recognized the woman who’d stood up to Snyder for him.  He nodded slowly.  “Oh, it’s you.  I didn’t get a chance to thank you for –”

She nodded stiffly.  “Not a problem,” she said, swallowing, her eyes looking terrified.  “Do you eat?  I can always, but would you want some food… now?”

Zep blinked rapidly, a smile suddenly breaking on his face, and he shook his head.  “Someone put you up to this?” he scoffed, incredulously looking around the locker room, as if trying to find a hidden camera.  

“What?” she startled, taking a step forward.  “What? No. No one.”

"Some kind of new hazing ritual?" The woman just stared at him blankly and Zep looked at her sideways.  “No one in this hospital really talks to me unless they have to, and now I see you twice in as many days.”

“I am new but… that's not why…” Zep was almost convinced he heard her growl.  "Look, you hungry or what?  I’m Sam Gray,” she said holding out her hand.

“Turlough Hindle,” he said, shyly taking her hand and giving it a small shake. “Everyone just calls me Zep.”  Her shake was strong but clean and clinical, though she was still staring at him with those wide curious eyes.

Dr. Gray’s gaze finally averted, and she let out a sigh, “Well Zep, you’re the local, what’s good?”

Zep breathed in and thought for a moment.  “There’s a nice Italian place down on Seventh Avenue.  We could go there?”  He was only looking at her through his periphery again, still trying to decide if she was real.

Dr. Gray nodded and turned to leave, letting Zep follow her and stumble out of the door.

**February 13, 2013 – 6:30PM**

The place was nice and in a medium price range.  Shaw imagined this was a frequent hangout for Zep.  They ordered and the silence felt deafening as they stared at one another, Shaw absently picking at her napkin.

_Ask him._ Shaw’s eyes widened as if Finch had physically pushed her.

“So, Hindle,” she cleared her throat.  “Where are you from?”

He blinked at her.  “Zep, please… and Maine, actually.”

Shaw nodded, feigning interest.  His voice was different than Harold's, similar tones but softer somehow.  “Any brothers or sisters?  How about your parents?”

Zep stiffened.  “My parents died a while back.  Two sisters and three brothers but ... We’re not close.”  He drank his water.  “How about you?”

“Oh, same,” she said, looking off towards the kitchens to see if their food was ready.  

_Miss Shaw?_

She looked up at Zep, who had a quizzical expression, and cleared her throat.  “I mean, I’m not close with family,” and the lightbulb went off as Zep nodded, sympathetically. She blinked and narrowed her eyes.  “Although, that’s a lot of family to have and not be close to anyone.”

“I’m adopted,” he felt himself confessing.  He stared at the floor, staying quiet for a while, a little look of surprise, and squirmed in his seat.  “None of us were really family, never really close... except my mom.”  Zep added, poking his fork.  

“Well, that explains...” Shaw stopped talking when Zep flinched, but his eyes had gone wild, and he looked like a wounded animal daring her to continue.  She cleared her throat.  “That must have been… hard.” She tried to soften her voice the way Reese sometimes did with victims they saved.  

Zep seemed frozen, but he mechanically nodded, as if he’d heard people tell him that all his life and this was the response he was supposed to give.  After a long pause, Zep turned his attention to the other people in the restaurant and Shaw’s eyes flitted to his face to watch him do it.  "Why do you keep doing that?" He asked, not looking at her, his voice quiet.

Shaw’s brow furrowed. "Doing what?"

Zep took in a sharp breath, seeing her through his periphery again. "You keep looking at me like I might burst into flames or something."

_Careful, Miss Shaw._

Sameen gave her head a little shake. "You just... Remind me of someone," seemed as safe an answer as any.  Zep blinked but didn't look at her, puzzlement coloring his face.  She thought he looked like a trapped ant in some kids magnifying glass and did her best to stop staring.

The waitress brought some bread to the table and they both seemed relieved to have something to do in addition to speaking.

“So,” Zep said, looking at her sideways with a small distracted smile, breaking the bread into smaller pieces..  "Did _you_ always want to be a doctor?"

Shaw took a large piece and practically swallowed it whole before answering. "Not really, but I was very good at it, so..." and she let the thought end, breaking off another piece with her teeth. "How about you?"

"Me?  Well," he said smirking. "I guess I never really wanted to be much of anything.  Mostly just followed my strengths."

"What did you, like,” Shaw stabbed at the butter and applied liberally, “Nurse sick squirrels back to health or something?" She raised an eyebrow and took another bite.

"Nothing quite so glamorous," he said, running a finger down his water glass.  Zep gave her a big boyish smile, that is, as much as he could without actually looking at her.  It was full of innocent charm and completely changed his features.  Shaw cocked her head to the side and studied how the lines in his face seemed to mimic Finch's, though these were definitely made from smiling, in contrast to his.  

She caught herself staring again, and this time made an effort to stop, taking a sip from her water.  

_Where did he go to school?_  

Shaw nearly choked as she swallowed, placing the glass back down.  Zep looked alarmed but she assured him that she was fine and excused herself.

She made her way to the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind her.  She looked in the mirror.  “Harold?” she said, staring at her reflection.

_Sameen?_

“What do you think you're doing?” she said.

_I don't understand -_

“It’s creepy enough carrying on a conversation with this guy, without having you in my ear asking questions.”

There was a long pause.   _I can see you’re point._

"You are more than welcome to come down here yourself," Shaw said.

_Somehow, I don't think a_ date _with me will ease him into a talking mood_ , Harold said. Shaw could hear his chair squeak as he leaned back.

“Then let me do my job and butt out,”  She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.  “I get it, ok?  The whole twins separated at birth thing -”

_Allegedly!_

“Harold.” It was an exasperated sigh without any fire behind it.  She heard him clear his throat and shook her head.  “It's not like I've spent years doing international espionage work for black ops,” she snarked.

There was no laugh, but then, Harold didn't laugh frivolous.

He was quiet for so long, she began to wonder if the call dropped. _I feel obligated to keep listening, but I can mute my end of the call, if you’d like._

“That’s really all I’m asking,” she said, letting out a grateful sigh.

_He could still be dangerous. I urge you to take every precaution._

Shaw smirked to herself.  “Don’t worry, Finch.  If he gets too rowdy, I’ll just shoot him.”

Another long pause, and then, _Not funny, Miss Shaw._ She smiled wider.

**February 13, 2013 – 9PM**

The evening had progressed effortlessly, despite their initial awkwardness.  One hour turned into two, and two into three.  Harold didn’t interrupt again, though Shaw couldn’t help but imagine his face as she asked some lighter more conversational questions.

In addition to learning quite a bit about him, Shaw found that Zep had a fascinating brain.  He was able to calculate things in a similar way to Harold, though where Harold might rattle off an equation, Zep was far more emotional about everything.  She couldn’t relate to half of what he was talking about, but she could understand it and thought it was refreshing.

She found herself comparing him to her recent companions.  Reese wouldn’t so much laugh at her jokes as they’d share a secret smirk that only assassins seemed to know.  Fusco could be funny when he wanted to be, but really, he was more jackass than anything else.  She didn’t think Carter had a funny bone in her body.  Harold was, well, Harold and could be funny, if a little gaunt.

Enjoying Zep’s dark sense of humor and the way he connected things, she found herself smiling, genuinely, with a kind of dreamy wonder. It was nice to make someone laugh and have them laugh with you.

After a while, it became apparent that Zep had developed a crush on her. She figured it was reasonable and, if she was being honest, she liked him too.

“Well,” Shaw said, checking her watch.  “It’s getting a little late for us early birds.”

Zep was blinking, his eyes growing heavy.  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he smiled at her sideways.

“I should get the check; you look like you’re going to fall asleep in your ice cream.”

"If you're not tired, I'm not tired," he said, straightening up with the maturity of a five year old.

Shaw smiled and made to wave down their server when Zep impulsively grabbed her hand.  He looked startled at their hands touching, and immediately let her go, the curve of his mouth twitching.  “I’m sorry, I’m just…" He looked strangely desperate all of a sudden.

"Something wrong Zep?" Shaw asked, finding herself hoping he'd confess to a gambling debt or snitching on a mob boss, giving her a target to shoot for him.

"I’m having a really good time, Dr. Gray.”

_Oh you, precious,_ she found herself thinking, and also realized she was giving him a toothy grin before she could stop herself.  “Me too, Zep. Call me Sam.”

“Sam," he said, and it was soft and tender.

"Well, now that we're on a first name basis," and she reached forward with her spoon and stole a bit of his ice cream.

"Hey!" He said, grabbing at the bowl.

He smiled drowsy. "I am tired," he confessed, staring at the ceiling. "I have tomorrow off, though, so it really doesn’t –”  He stopped, not quite looking at her, sure that his eyes were starting to close.  He swallowed, his palms suddenly wet. He ran his fingers through his hair and kept looking up at the ceiling.  “There's no reason to go home, unless, you would … like to go there with me?” he stammered.

Shaw hesitated.  “I…” she said, unable to really know the right answer.  “It’s just,” she looked passed him as if the answer was written on the wall.

_Miss Shaw?  I know I said I wasn’t going to stay out of it, but you can’t possibly be entertaining this notion._

Shaw smiled a little hard, trying to ignore Harold in her ear.  “I um,” she stammered, trying to weigh the pros and cons of giving in without Harold’s input.

She couldn’t find an appropriate phrase for _“I’d like that, but you look like my boss, who by the way, is listening to every word we’ve said, so it might be weird if I go back to your place with intentions”_ without sounding like a crazy person.  But she did like Zep and thought it could be, at the very least, another way she could keep an eye on him.  

“I would like to very much,” she found herself saying, even as she heard Harold hyperventilating and likely pacing back and forth.

Zep seemed to straighten into a proper upright sitting position and kick one of his chair legs.  “Then get the check, I'll be right back,” he said, grabbing his coat and excusing himself to find the restroom.  He left her his wallet to cover whatever she needed.

*

Zep walked into the men’s room and hid in a stall. Though he hadn’t had a drink the entire night, he’d swear he was three sheets to the wind, completely and utterly high, and he was going to ride the wake as long as he could.

Dr. Gray – Sam – was intelligent, and funny.  He felt so comfortable around her, and what he found so alluring was that she seemed a bit odd too.  It was like she was telling secrets to him that no one else needed know. He was good at keeping secrets.  

Even though they’d only met that day, he was already becoming quite smitten.

He took some deep breaths and then walked out of the stall, going to wash his face.  There were no paper towels so he reached into his pockets to find some additional napkin when he stumbled across the strange object from before.  He pulled it out of his pocket.  

It was a tape recorder with the words, “PLAY ME” written on it in crude pencil.  Zep looked around, thinking another joke was being played on him.  Without any other recourse available, he hit play and waited.

_“Hello, Mr. Hindle.  Or as they call you around the hospital, Zep.”_

*

_Are you trying to be funny, Miss Shaw?_

“I don’t know what you mean, Finch,” she murmured, counting out the right amount of money and leaving it for the waitress.  “I need to keep an eye on him, this seemed the easiest way to do it.”

_WHAT?_

Shaw grabbed her purse and headed for the door, the fresh air was just was she needed.

Zep came out of the rest room looking disoriented.  

_There is no need for this, Miss Shaw._

She watched him from the window, and saw he wasn’t quite paying attention to what he was doing.

_We can watch and listen to him from a distance –_

“Hold that thought, Harold,” she said.

Zep walked out of the restaurant and nearly ran right past her.

“Zep, you ok?”

“Sam, oh,” he said, his eyes not focusing.  His face was drenched in sweat and he was shaking.  Shaw grabbed for his hand, putting his wallet in it, but lingered on purpose.  That small touch had the desired affect, as he looked down at them clasped together.  “Sam,” he said again, without looking up.  “I can’t… I have to go.  I’m sorry about tonight, but there’s somewhere I have to be.”

“I can go with you,” Shaw said.

“You… You can’t, I’m really very sorry.”  Zep managed a weak smile.  “I’ll see you at work … day after tomorrow, ok?”  If Shaw wasn’t mistaken, she could have sworn he was about to cry but she didn’t push it.  

She nodded and he looked even more worried as he stumbled away from her, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Did you get all of that Finch?”

_I did, Miss Shaw._

“Whatever just happened -”

_I know.  Look, we’ve received another number.  I need you to attend to that one instead.  I’ll tail Mr. Hindle._

“What?  No, I’ve put a lot of work into this one, Finch.  He’s –”

_Not in any immediate danger, Miss Shaw.  The way it sounded to me, it seems like he’s running away from something.  I can at least get him to the safehouse, but Adam Faulkner-Stanheight is a PI and I think he’s more dangerous than our anomaly, Mr. Hindle._

“What about John?”

_When he’s done with Miss Carter, he will check in with me, and then he can watch Mr. Hindle.  Now, please, go!_

Sameen watched Zep walk down the street, looking scared and alone.  She was about to tell Harold exactly what to do with those orders, until suddenly, she saw someone cross the street with a very noticeable and familiar limp.  She sighed and said, “Ok, Harold, whatever you say.”

**February 13, 2013 – 9:20PM**

Harold Finch was keenly aware that he needed to stay invisible as he tailed his double along the street.  After a couple of blocks, it became apparent that Zep wasn’t interested on anything frivolous.  He was barreling towards a very specific task, which he followed with a single-minded purpose.  Harold noted the subway entrances that Zep would need on his route away from the restaurant and noticed he wasn’t turning to any of them.

“I guess we’re not going home,” he mumbled to himself.

They kept walking for a few more blocks and then Zep seemed to look around at the street signs.  He walked a couple of steps, pacing, cocking his head from side to side and then spotted something, crossing the street to a recycling bin.  He approached it and gingerly picked through it.  Pulling a plastic bag with a red arrow on it out of the bin, he seemed to tear it open.  Harold wasn’t able to see what he’d unearthed, but understanding dawned when he watched the gun go into Zep’s belt.

Harold, to his credit, didn’t freeze on the spot, but instead kept following him, though he could feel the blood in his body drain to his feel.  He considered calling Shaw, but she would likely be fresh on Adam’s tail by now.  He touched his earwig and called John instead.  “Mr. Reese, I’m afraid I’m in need of your assistance.”

“Everything alright, Finch?” John’s voice was it’s usual soft murmur.  Harold could vaguely make out someone whining and then Mr. Reese hushing them.  The whining stopped rather quickly.  “I have to take this.  You think about what I told you.  Now, you tell the nice police woman what you saw, and I don’t have to introduce you to my friend, ok?”  There was a sound like a clattering metal object and then a door squeaking shut.  “All yours, Carter.  Sorry about that Harold, what is it you need?”

Harold swallowed convulsively, his limp getting slightly worse as he tried to keep Zep in his sights.  “Where are you, Mr. Reese?”

“Midtown, why?”

He was closing in.  “Because I need you over at the safe house,” Harold had begun whispering.  “I’m afraid I’m going to need your help on Mr. Hindle’s number after all.”  Harold reached into his jacket lining and pulled out a small black jack, something John had insisted he carry on him at all times, ever since Root abducted him … the second time.

He approached Zep from behind and clocked him solidly, catching him awkwardly as he fell.  The sound of the effort must have been loud enough to alarm John because suddenly he was shouting in Finch’s ear.  “I’m alright, I just need to hail a cab and get him to the safehouse, but I’m going to need you to secure him for me.”

“I’m on my way,” John said, and Harold could practically hear him disappear into a cab.

**February 13, 2013 – 10PM**

Zep opened his eyes and blinked, groaning at the pain in his neck and shoulder.  He was sitting down and he didn’t remember getting that way.  In fact, he was having trouble remembering much of anything. He was tied down to a surprisingly comfortable chair at a very nicely polished wood table.  His vision had little squiggly lines everywhere he looked and he shook his head, trying to clear it.

He tested his restraints, but didn’t seem to have much energy yet.  He looked around instead, which is how he noticed the man sitting across from him.  Zep kept his head down and observed him out of his periphery.  He was good looking, with salt and pepper hair and a sympathetic smile.  “Mr. Hindle, how are you?”  Zep couldn’t seem to observe anything else other than tall, since, even sitting down, Zep felt like he towered over him.  

Zep licked his lips as the man waited patiently.  His thoughts started waking up and he flinched, attempting to cower as much as he could, “Please don’t kill me.”

The man almost looked hurt.  He put his hands down on the table as a passive gesture.  “I get that a lot, but I promise, I’m not here to kill you.  How are you?” he repeated.

He found he could turn his head, though that hurt too.  He noticed colors and shapes as his eyes tried to adjust.  “You mean other than the whole abduction thing?” Zep said, quietly.  

The man smirked.  “Yea, other than that.  My name is John.  I’m not going to hurt you.  Actually, I just want to talk.”  The man - John - leaned back, giving Zep space.  

Zep kept himself distracted trying to focus on the surroundings.  He saw what could only describe as a lavish, but tastefully decorated apartment, something that would have been on the market for five million easy.  

There were also clocks everywhere, which he thought was interesting – Why clocks?  Clocks.  The time.  10:05pm.  Why was that important?  Zep broke out in a cold sweat as his head snapped back to stare at “John,” who only gave him soft big eyes.  “Are you with _him_?”

“With who?”

Zep laughed but it was choked and dry.  John blinked at him, waiting for a response.  “Him.  Or _them_.  I’m not sure.  I don’t know, the guy from the tape. The one who wants me to -” Zep couldn’t say it.  He shook his head, a little too hard.

“What tape?”

Zep sighed, exasperated.  “The tape, the one from my pockets which I assume you’ve searched!”  Zep’s eyes got very wide all of a sudden.  “Oh no,” he squirmed around in the chair.  “What did you do with the gun.  I’m supposed to have the gun on me at all times, I can’t _feel_ it, where _is_ it?”  Zep was fighting the bonds now, his head throbbing.

“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep that up,” John said.  He stood up slowly, and poured water for Zep into a plastic cup.  Leaving it for Zep, just in front of him in easy reaching distance, he undid his right arm.  Zep went for it pretty quickly.  He poured him another when he was done and let him down that too.  “We can protect you.”

“How friendly neighborhood kidnappers of you,”  John refilled his glass with more water and he gulped it down again, muttering a quick thank you.  “I doubt that, considering he’s already started trying to kill me.”

“We found the tape and the recorder.  My friends’ analyzing it right now.  What I want to know is where it came from.  Do you have any enemies, Mr. Hindle?”

Zep put down the cup and rubbed his face.  “Other than you?”

John’s lips pursed, but he refilled the water.  “Believe me, if I was your enemy -”

_Mr. Reese, I don’t think we need to go into that much detail._  A voice filled the room, though it was quiet and calculating, oddly familiar.  Zep looked around as much as he could, spotting a speak phone in the corner.   _We are not your enemies, Zep.  It would work to your best interest to trust us, though I know we haven’t garnered much._

Zep was quiet for a while, blinking too much.  “Who is that?” he asked, looking up at John.

“We’re all friends here, Zep,” John told him.  

“Friends?” he spat.  “I don’t have any friends,”  He was so near shouting, he was shaking.  “Please let me go; there’s somewhere I need to be, I -” and suddenly he was coughing.  His whole body shook.  It took him a minute to feel John holding his head upright, to help make sure he didn’t hurt himself, he thought.

_Please, Zep, stay calm.  You’re only going to hurt yourself the more you struggle._

Zep took shallow by slow breaths, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the tickle at the back of his throat.  “Who _are_ you?  Why won’t you come out to see me?  How do I know you and Lurch here aren’t who sent me the tape in the first place?”  Zep could have sworn he saw John smirk out of the corner of his eye, but he was finally starting to feel better, which was laughable.  He glared at the phone, willing it to tell him what he needed to know.

_For several reasons, Mr. Hindle.  You’ve been targeted by a man the papers are calling ‘Jigsaw.’  You are perfectly safe while you’re with us, I can assure you.  I have listened to your tape, and I can safely tell you that, while Jigsaw may want you to do some terrible things, all we want to do is keep you, and anyone else he might have hurt, safe._

Zep shook his head.  “That still doesn’t answer who _you_ are.  I’m not telling you anything else.”

John leaned over the speaker.  “I think you’re going to have to come clean, Harold.”  Zep could hear a tapping, just before the speaker cut off and then he heard a slow uneven gait to his left.

There was a small doorway off to the side and into it stepped… a man... about his build with the same hair and eye color, though he wore glasses.  He was wearing a nice suit, and walking a little stiffly, but Zep forced himself to look up into his face, because he could have sworn…

Zep watched, helpless, as his worldview shifted and reality seemed to blur right in front of his eyes.  He felt nauseous. He thought he was going to pass out.  The man John had called Harold slowly walked up to him, his eyes blank and open, his lips tight.  Zep’s exact eyes and lips pursed back at him out of the face of this stranger.  Zep felt his own mouth go slack in a silent groan.

They both stared at each other for a moment and then Harold cleared his throat.  “Can I offer you a drink, Zep?  I think I’ll have one.”


	4. Everyone’s Relevant to Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zep is in trouble but Harold has a plan.

**Chapter Four – Everyone’s Relevant to Someone**

**December 12** **th** **, 2012 – 11:30AM**

Dr. Gordon made a few notes and dashes on the patient’s chart while he waited for everyone to file into the room.  “Yes, yes, come in,” he said, as the last person found a space in the corner.  "Are we all here?"  He made a mental check and counted.  “Good.”

He turned, snapping x-rays into the lightbox behind him.  “Okay,” he said turning back around.  “The patient has an inoperable frontal lobe tumor extending across the midline, started as colon cancer,” he said, trying to make eye contact with each one of the residency doctors.  “The patient had come in for a standard checkup, which we were able to monitor the rate at which his condition is declining.”

He caught the pretty eyes of one of the new girls.  Her smile was a little too wide and she started blushing.  “The patient, um…”  Swallowing, Dr. Gordon attempted to go on, putting his clipboard in front of his trousers. 

“His name is John, Dr. Gordon.”

Dr. Gordon startled out of his trance, looking for the source of the interruption.    

“He’s a very interesting person.” 

His eyes finally found Zep Hindle, one of the more annoying orderlies in the hospital.  His face was flushed, and he was standing up tall, more animated than Dr. Gordon had seen him in a long time. 

Dr. Gordon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.  He let the barely concealed rage leak in sweet tones as he said, “Thank you for that information, Zep.”  Dr. Gordon watched Zep flinch and back away.  “As you can see,” he turned his attention back to the other doctors.  “Our orderlies form very special bonds with the patients.  He has – Excuse me, I’m sorry.” 

He put his clipboard under his arm, feeling the buzz of his pager in his coat pocket.  His face turned to stone as he scanned the number, but he recovered quickly.  “Apparently, no one wants me to tell you what the patient has…”  He smiled at the smattering of laughter.  “Just one moment, please.”  He left the room, walking past Zep on his way to a nearest triage station.  “Zep.  My office.  After 2pm today.”

Zep coward from him but nodded, “Yes, Dr. Gordon.”

He took the pager out again and checked the number as he dialed, nabbing a phone, giving a small apologetic smile to the nurse. "This is Dr. Gordon, I got your page?"

"Larry?"  Cathy’s voice came clear over the phone.

"Hello, Mrs. Oppenheimer, how are you feeling?"  Gordon kept his face very controlled as other nurses passed by.

"Oh, oh no, you’re at work,” Cathy sighed.  “I thought today was your day off?"

The smile became plastered. "No, Mrs. Oppenheimer, no hot compresses until Thursday like we discussed."

Cathy made a frustrated sound.  "I forgot honey, I'm sorry."

"That's quite alright, you contact me as much as you need to, if you need anything you know that."  Gordon rubbed his eyes.  “If that’s all for now - ”

"No wait,” and he heard Cathy put something down. “I do need you, Larry."

Larry hesitated. "To see me? Can it wait until your check up? I'm afraid I have a very full docket."

"No,” and he could feel the frustration in her voice. “I hate my new job, I want to quit," she nearly sobbed.

Larry flinched and, with his free hand, clicked his pen in his pocket over and over. "Well, you should really give the medication a chance before you dismiss it.  You can’t just stop."

Cathy put something else down with more force.  “This was your idea, Larry!  Just because that creep didn’t even see anything and you got cold feet.  Besides, I thought you were going to tell your wife!”

Gordon froze.  He was trembling inside with rage and his stomach was in knots.  He didn’t say anything and nodded mechanically just in case anyone was passing by.

“Larry?”

“Yes, Mrs. Oppenheimer, We’ll talk about it at your next check up.” He switch the phone to his other ear and whispered, “I promise.”

Cathy gave a great sigh of relief.  "Thank you, Larry. I love you."

Gordon sniffed in a sharp breath, his teeth clenching.  "Not at all, and the same to you. Bye bye now."

**February 13, 2013 – 9:40PM**

The cabbie pulled up in front of the upper west side apartment, mumbling “That’ll be fifteen dollars, man.”

Harold paid him, giving him a fifty-dollar bill, and shoved at Zep's unconscious body to get to the backdoor.

“Wow, you didn’t have to do that!” said the cabbie pocketing the money. He blinked up and saw Harold struggling.  “Some people can’t hold their liquor, huh?”

“That... Would appear to be the case,” Harold said, fumbling with the door handle.

Jovial, presumably from the extra cash, he blurted out, “You want a hand with your brother?” as he was already making a go for his door.

Harold’s head whipped around to glare at the driver, who froze. Just before he was about to say something fairly rude, the backdoor swung open and Reese leaned in, going for Zep before Harold could ask him to.  “Apparently, we’ve got it under control," he said, clipped and short. "But thank you.”

Reese lifted Zep up and propped him there, using his shoulder.  He glared at Harold, his eyes piercing.  Harold hoped he made a good show of not noticing, head bent, and keys at the ready.

They made their way around the building to Harold's preferred side entrance. Jerry was manning the door.  Every doorman in this building was overcompensated not to question the strange habit of an eccentric billionaire.  They didn’t even bat an eye when asked to ignore the occasional slumped form enter with him, although Harold hoped that Jerry, who was manning the door now, was compensated enough to not notice the uncanny resemblance.

By the time they got to Harold's private elevator, Reese was vibrating. He didn't turn to look at him but Harold could see his shoulders square and practically feel the hot rage coming off of him in waves. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?” Reese asked, his quiet tone betraying his body language.

Harold swallowed.  “Miss Shaw had everything under control,” he said into the silence.  “That is, until a new number came up.  I called you when I needed you, Mr. Reese.”

Reese gave a huffy sigh, and finally did turn, carrying Zep’s weight like it was nothing. Harold vaguely wondered if he would be that light in John's arms. "You should have called me in as back up, especially since everyone else was busy."

Harold bristled. "Any luck finding Detective Fusco?" and he let the bite color his tone. Reese's jaw set.  “That's why I didn't call sooner, John."  Harold used his keys to let Reese into the apartment, stepping aside.

Reese made quick work of Zep, tying his hands, feet, and making sure to have a restraint around his chest to hold him upright. He checked his pulse and breathing too. By the time Harold walked into the room, Zep was fully secured, and Reese was admiring the impact of the black jack.  "That's nice work, Finch," he said, sounding impressed. "Already starting to bruise."

Harold winced, and came to stand nearby as John set to work, unpacking Zep's pockets. He took out the gun and laid it on the table, it was a magnum, and  _ a good one _ , or so John’s facial expression told Harold.  He wondered if it would conveniently go missing at the end of the mission.

Other sundries littered the table; wallet, receipts, keys, mints, tissues, and then Reese dropped something with a clatter. It had a weight to it, and Harold looked at it quizzically. It wasn't until John picked it up with the reverence he usually had for bombs, that Harold understood what it was.

“That looks like –“

Reese nodded.  “It is.”  Harold swallowed.  Reese looked from Zep to Harold, and walked into the den, Harold stiffly following.  Reese stood at attention and gently leaned the recorder towards Harold.  “Do you want –“  Harold’s head shook, a little too hard.  Reese gave the smallest of nods, placing the recorder on the table, and pressed play.

“ _ Hello, Mr. Hindle, _ ” The gravelly voice of Jigsaw crackled and spat out of the recorder.  “ _ Or as they called you around the hospital, Zep. I want you to make a choice.  There’s a slow acting poison coursing through your system, which only I have the antidote for.  Will you murder a mother and her child to save yourself?  Listen carefully, if you will.  There are rules. _ ”

John produced a notepad from somewhere and seemed to be checking other scribbles he’d already made.  He stopped the tape.

Harold blinked, pushing his glasses further onto his nose.  His mouth had gone dry and he brought his hand to his mouth to keep it from shaking.  “I think it’s safe to assume,” he said, leaning on the table and keeping his voice low, “that Mr. Hindle  _ will _ murder a mother and child, or was at least considering it.”  Harold looked up at Reese, but he wasn’t paying attention.  “Mr. Reese?”

“Not so fast, Harold,” he said, rifling through the pages.  “This doesn’t fit Jigsaw’s M.O.”

Harold’s eyes widened and he walked closer to him, whispering urgently.  “I found him getting the gun out of the trash...”

“I understand that, Finch, I’m just trying to look at this objectively.”

“Objectively?” Harold said, actually making a fist.

“Harold?  There’s something that doesn’t fit.”  Reese kept his attention on the pages, but flitted his eyes to Harold.  “Every other time Jigsaw has contacted someone, it’s been fairly impersonal.  Creepy sure, but this is different.”  Reese sat down, making some new notes and rewound the tape before hitting play again.

“ _ –have the antidote for.  Will you murder a mother and her child to save yourself?  Listen carefully, if you will.  There are rules.  First, go to 165 _ _ th _ _ and Broadway.  In a recycle bin you will find an object.  You must keep this object on you at all times.  Second, I need you to monitor an experiment for me.  Once that experiment is completed, you will receive the antidote, and not before.  Third, I think it's time you visited 559 Cherry Road.  The Devil you know, or in this case, the Doctor.  The clock is ticking, Zep, make your choice.” _

Reese stopped the tape. "I can't explain it Finch, but it's like he's... going easy on this guy. Zep has a choice, a bigger one than any of the other victims had.  He’s already talking about Zep in the past tense, which I think is what tipped off the machine."

Harold walked to the doorway and watched their unexpected guest.

“He’s probably going to wake up soon,” Reese said, in his usual whisper.

Harold stiffened.  “You should talk to him.  I’ve spent the last two days trying not to frighten him, so I’ll keep to myself.  Listening, of course,” Harold said, his lips tight but twitching.

John nodded, “You can’t stay in the shadows forever Harold, eventually you two are going to have to meet.”

“But now is not that moment, Mr. Reese,” he said, limping over to his computer desk in the corner.

**February 13, 2013 – 10:20PM**

The likeness was uncanny.

Reese finished up in the kitchen, half listening to the murmuring of the two men in the room.  He came back holding two mugs.  He smirked and placed one in front of Zep.

Zep turned up his nose.  “What is that?”

“Sencha Green Tea,” Reese said, looking at Harold out of his periphery.

Zep cringed, poking it with one finger away from him as he looked back at Reese.  “Coffee?” he pleaded, and Reese set down the other mug in front of him, which he snatched up, covetously.

Harold reached for the tea. “Well the more for me then,” he said, looking displeased.

“Glasses?” Zep asked abruptly, and then shyly cleared his throat.  “I mean, you wear them all the time?” Zep was staring, he couldn't help it.

Harold nodded after taking a long drink, “I’m afraid so.  Never any trouble with your eyesight?”

Zep shook his head, his hands flexing and his leg quaking.  

Harold was making the same face he made when he couldn’t quite understand a computer program acting up.  Zep did not compute.

“How about your leg?”  Zep said.  He seemed to instantly regret the question and take refuge in his coffee mug.

“Ah,” Harold said, unconsciously tilting his head to his bad side.  Reese leaned in.  He couldn’t be completely sure, but he did notice Harold observing his sudden interest in the topic.  Harold glanced at him quickly, his eyes lidded, “That’s a rather … difficult subject to discuss.  Let’s try something easier.”

Zep glanced down at his restraints and half turned to Reese.  “Would you mind, ya know, giving me a little more freedom?”

Reese turned to Harold for direction. Harold looked at Reese and gave him the barest of nods.  John got up and undid Zeps chest restraint and sat back down.

“Hey, come on, that’s it?” Zep said, waving his still restrained hand, and trying to get more of Harold’s attention.

Harold blinked back at him.  “Talk to us about your situation, Zep, give us a little trust and we’ll return it in kind.”

“Whatever,” he shrugged, taking another drink at the same time as Harold.  Reese covered his mouth with his hand in an effort not to burst out laughing.  In the end, it was worth it to let them realize what they were doing and quietly put the mugs down in unison, not looking at each other.  Zep cleared his throat and massaged his shoulder, doing what Reese had called in the past, a sweeping  _ civilian-attempts-to-be-stealthy _ gaze over everything in Harold’s apartment.  “So, what do you do?” Zep said.

“Pardon?” Harold blinked at him, as if he hadn’t seen the question coming at all.

“I mean,” Zep looked all around him, eyes wide and mouth agape.  “Come on, Harold.  Seriously, do you even have a day job?”

John turned to Harold, leaning his chin into his open palm and getting comfortable.

“I… have some assets,” Harold said, stiffening.

“Huh, yea ok, in like what? Government snake oil?”  Zep tried to look behind him.  “Drugs – is it drugs?” Harold choked on his tea.  “I mean, I’ve seen some doctors let things fall off the back of an ambulance once in awhile, but never enough to –”

“Certainly not,” Harold said, after regaining his composure and very flatly offended.

Zep ducked his head, not making eye contact with Harold, but obviously pleased with himself.  “How many bedrooms?” he said, the question directed at the wall above Harold’s head.

“Well, it’s…” Harold cleared his throat.  “It’s actually the whole top floor,” he said, into his tea.

Zep was coughing again, but it didn’t seem to be from the poison.  “The whole top – Harold!”  His whole face lit up, and his gaze went back to his surroundings, swiveling as much as he could.  “Do you have a mortgage?  No, no I mean why would you.  But how much is – and that there – What  _ do _ you do with your spare time?”

Reese glanced at Harold.  His usually suave partner, who had a charming word for everything was suddenly very mute.  He watched as Harold seemed to be doing mental backflips.  “He… freelances,” Reese said.  Harold shot him a  _ not helping _ type glare but that didn’t stop him from adding, “Sort of charitable type things, mostly night work.”  Reese couldn’t help it, he winked at Harold.

Zep looked from one of them to the other, or as much as he was looking at them to begin with.  “Wait –But you’re… So what you’re saying is you’re what, vigilantes?  Like Batman?  My brother is Batman!”

“Actually,” Reese said, raising his hand.  “I’m Batman, he’s more like Alfred.”

Harold was doing his best impersonation of a clam in its shell that Reese had ever seen.  His mouth seemed to open into a little o and then close after murmuring, “So much for secrecy.” Harold got up and took both mugs into the kitchen for a refill.

Reese couldn’t help but actually let out a breathy laugh.  He kept eye contact with Zep and shrugged, but his words were for Harold.  “What can I saw, Finch.  He’s family!” and winked at Zep.

Zep let loose a disbelieving chortle, which turned into a coughing fit.  “I think I can definitively say, you’ve had a better ride than I have,” Zep said when he had his breath back.  Zep looked like he’d just found out he was related to Santa Claus, if still trying to keep his composure.  “So, what, were your parent’s rich?”  

Harold came back into the room and Reese could have sworn he felt the whole apartment go cold.  “Not as such.”

"My foster parents never even said I was a twin," Zep said, flinching, the mirth slowly receding.

“Yes, well, Zep,” He said, placing another mug of coffee in front of him, “Let’s get down to the matter at hand.”

Zep took a sip of the coffee and frowned.  “Did you switch to decaf on me?”

Harold gave him a fairly innocent expression, “Of course not.”

“I work crazy hours, man, I know what coffee is supposed to taste like.” He said, drinking more anyway.  “Even rich Alfred coffee,” he murmured. He turned excited eyes on Harold. “Can you tell me about your childhood?  Like if you weren’t rich, what did your adopted parents do for –”

“I’d really rather talk about what you need, right now, Zep,” Harold said.  “What can we do for you.”

Zep was suddenly examining the table, pain clear on his face.  “Our birth mother’s name was Katherine; did you know that?” Zep said, lost in thought.

Harold blinked hard at him.  “No,” he said, quietly.

Zep’s eyes got watery.  There was a strange understanding between them that Reese must have missed because the next thing he heard Zep say was, “I guess we were both lied to,” and downed the rest of his coffee.  He put his mug down a little harder than necessary, and shook it off, like someone used to shaking things off.  “If you wanted to know what was wrong, maybe you could have talked to me before hitting me over the head that hard,” he said, turning to Reese.

“That wasn’t me,” Reese said.

Zep looked over at Harold with a look of mild horror, and partial respect.

Harold winced and pinched the bridge of his nose, “You had a  _ gun! _ ” he whispered, waving away the contempt on Zep’s face.

Reese stepped in to ask again, “Zep.  We think Jigsaw is targeting you specifically.  We know he wants you to do unspeakable things to some innocent people, and we won’t let that stand.  But we can’t do anything until you talk to us.”

Zep was silent.  Harold leaned forward, catching his eye.  “I can only imagine what you must think of me.  These… surroundings… but I assure you, if I’d known I would have … We could have helped each other.  Let me help you now.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” Zep asked, softly.

Harold nodded.  Reese could see that he meant it.  Zep would be a fool to turn this away.

Zep shook his head, the melancholy look returning.  “I can tell you what other instructions I was given, but he’s already trying to kill me.  Just look,” he said, referencing his hand.  “Tremors.  I don’t know what this is, but it’s attacking my nervous system, intermittently.  That’s… I don’t know, but it’s bad.  As I sit here I’m dying,” Zep whimpered.  He hung his head.  “Please, you have to let me do what he wants.  He could be watching right now and wondering what’s taking me so long.”

Reese shifted in his chair.  “You have to tell us, Zep.  Watching where?” Reese said, latching onto that small morsel.

Zep slumped further.  “Cherry Road.  That’s Dr. Gordon’s place.  He wants me to go to Dr. Gordon’s apartment.  His wife and kid are there, or would be there, in about an hour, maybe two.”

Harold looked at him clinically.  “And?”

“I think he wants me to… hold them hostage.”  Zep was chewing on his bottom lip.  “He has something planned for Dr. Gordon.  I don’t know what, but I’m supposed to monitor it somehow.”

“The experiment he was talking about?” Reese asked.  Zep nodded.  Reese was leaning forward again, “Why you?” Reese asked.

Zep scoffed, “Thanks for that.”

Harold shook his head, “No, John’s right, why ask you to do this?”

“Probably because I think the world would be a better place without Dr. Gordon in it,” Zep said, gritting his teeth.  He looked at the ceiling, a bark of painful laughter escaping him.  “Probably because I work with the son of a bitch,” he screeched.  Harold and Reese shared a look that Zep didn’t quite catch as he went on.  “I’m sorry, the guy’s a brilliant surgeon but a terrible human being.”

When Zep finally did side glance them again, his face screwed up into that of a pleading victim.  Harold’s face, Reese couldn’t see anything else for a split second.  “No really,” Zep went on.  “He squanders every little piece of good he gets.  He has a wonderful family, a great practice, but he can’t seem to be a decent guy and he doesn’t try very hard.”

Reese knew, watching him, that he would do anything for Harold’s brother.  He would do what he must, and the road was clear and straight.  His heart broke a little for the man in front of him, and in his periphery, he saw Harold’s slow blink of resolution.  His employer was tapping on the table.  “What is it, Finch?” Reese said, turning to look at his partner full on.  Harold wasn’t smiling exactly.  If Reese didn’t know any better, he would have thought it was a grimace.  “Finch?”

“Please just let me go,” Zep said, hanging his head, and fidgeting to get out of the restraints.

“Zep, I think you know that we can’t do that.”  Harold said, leaning back.  “It’s clear to me that I can’t allow you to continue down this frightening track,” he said.  He held up a hand when Zep tried to protest.  “Please, I have a way out of this.  You need to trust me and give us some time.  But first I have a request.”

Zep picked up his head, but his question was aimed at the table.  “And what’s that?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to need your clothes.”

*

“Finch?” Reese gingerly knocked, walking into the bedroom when he realized Finch was in the master bath.  He handed the clothes from Zep in to Harold, gently waving them just inside the door to give Harold his privacy.

“I assume the clothes I gave Zep fit him?” Harold said, taking the pile.

Reese smirked.  “It’s amazing we got his number,” he said, looking hard at the opposite wall as if he could see through it to Zep in the other room.

“Mm-hmm,” came Harold’s answer.

“Strange, isn’t it?  That the Machine wouldn’t have tried to reunite you two before now?”

Harold dropped something small and plastic.  “It’s a machine, Mr. Reese.”  He heard him grunt with effort to pick it up

“You’re its creator, Harold.  It’s … father.  Zep is practically the Machine’s uncle –”

“I programmed it to know that I’m irrelevant,” Harold huffed, grunting into what sounded like the jeans.  “Me and my… associates are not more or less worthy of saving than anyone else.”

Reese stood stock still in the center of the room, a growing tension between his shoulder blades.  He had planted himself right outside the bathroom door, guarding Harold.  He sighed, “Finch, we need to talk about this mission.”

“I don’t see that there’s anything to talk about,” came Harold’s muffled voice from the bathroom.

“I’m uncomfortable letting you do this,” Reese said, crossing his arms.

“Well, one of the benefits of being the boss, Mr. Reese, is that you don’t have to have the burden of letting me doing anything.” he said, and Reese heard his light chuckle.  “But, to be honest, I don’t feel comfortable doing this either.”

“You shouldn’t have to do this, Harold,” Reese’s nails bit into his skin.  “Let me go instead.”

Harold’s reply was muffled by, what John assumed was one of the shirts.  “And if Jigsaw is watching the apartment and spots you?  What will he do to Dr. Gordon?  Or to the wife and daughter?  Zep is already in trouble.”  Reese could almost hear him shaking his head.  “No, it has to be me.  There’s no other way.”

Another few moments and Harold emerged from the bathroom.  It took Reese a few seconds to stop gawking at him.  The clothes helped with the illusion, but he’d also roughed up his hair a little and wasn’t wearing his glasses.  “What?” Harold said, and then seemed to understand, giving a little  _ ah _ and tapping his temple.  “Contacts,” he smirked.

Reese didn’t disagree that this was definitely a positive match for Mr. Hindle, but he was still frowning.  “And the limp?”

Harold sighed, “Nothing to be done about that, I’m afraid, but if I walk slowly enough I can minimize it.  I just have to hope that the rest of it is convincing enough.”

“And the  _ kidnapping _ ?” John said, his voice rising.  “When was the last time you wrestled someone to the ground and tied them up?  Or abducted a  _ child _ ?”

Harold paused but only squared his jaw, not answering.  He walked passed Reese into the main room.

Zep was sitting on the couch now, appearing a little more comfortable, but with a collar on his leg.  It was something to make sure he didn’t leave the apartment complex and Harold made it very clear that he’d be very cross if he did.

When he saw, Harold he covered his mouth.  “This is… so strange…” he said, into his palms.

Harold blinked back at him in the suit he’d given him to wear, and gave a little shrug of his own.  “Please, make yourself at home,” Harold said, adding, “As much as one can while being under house arrest.”

Zep nodded, folding his hands together, the mirth returning to his eyes.  “I’m sure John will take great care of me.  And Harold,” he said, just as Harold was about to walk out of the door.  “Thank you,” he said, letting his eyes fall away.

Harold gave him a curt nod.  “Of course.”

John walked up to him with the gun.  He put into Harold’s waistband after showing him where the safety was and that it was on.  “Good luck, Finch,” Reese said, heading back into the apartment.  He didn’t look back.  He knew that Harold had made up his mind.


	5. Every Piece has a Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carter looks for Tapp, John watches Zep, and Harold must keep it together for the sake of a woman and her child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really put Harold through the ringer on this chapter... Hold onto your butts people!

******February 12, 2013 – 3PM**

Carter pulled up to Detective Tapp’s home in Valley Stream and turned off the engine.  The house was the nicest one on the very quiet street, and normally that would have made her smile.

But she couldn’t shake the somber feeling from the last couple of days as she eased out of the patrol car and slowly walked to the door, knocking gently.  A moment later, a small thin woman in a robe opened the door a crack, looking concerned.

“Martha, hi,” Carter said, putting on a warm smile as she spoke to her through the outer screen door.  “I don’t know if you remember me.  I work with your husband.”

“Oh, yes - Detective Carter, isn’t it?”

“I’m actually a Patrol Officer now, but yes.  I just wanted to check-in on David and see how he was.”

Martha squinted at her and gave a little nod, "Well, I haven’t seen David since the hospital discharged him last night.  He woke up this morning before I did, so I thought he was at work,” she said, folding her arms.  “I thought he’d want to take a day or two but…” she shrugged.

“Oh,” Carter said, keeping the smile, but blinking a little too quickly.  “Maybe, I – I must have just missed him after my shift.”  Carter took in the woman’s dark rings under her eyes and sighed.  “How’ve you been?”

Martha gave a huffy little laugh and pursed her lips.  “I honestly, don’t know.  David was working himself to the bone on that Jigsaw case, and then Detective Fusco… I just wish he’d talk to me.  Any leads on that?”

Carter took in a sharp breath, her smile going a little plastic.  Martha was married to Tapp, so Carter knew she’d recognize _the look_.   It didn’t take long for Martha shake her head and say, “I know, I know you can’t talk about it,” Martha exhaled, apologetically.  “I like Fusco.  I can’t stop worrying about him.”  She massaged her temples.  “They were friends before they were partners.  Our son used to watch Lee a few years ago for extra cash on summer vacations.”

“I didn’t know,” Carter said, her head tilting to the side.  “I miss Fusco, too.”

Martha smiled sadly.  “Lionel and David used to be a part of the same bowling league.”

“Oh, wow,” Carter said.  She imagined the two of them in matching bowling shirts, and her smile widened a little.  “Fusco and Tapp are pretty close, huh?” she asked, keeping her voice as gentle as she could.

“Yea, close,” Martha said, getting a shiver all of a sudden.  “You find him, you let us know.”

Carter nodded.

“Will that be all?”

“Yes Martha, thank you,” Carter said, taking out a card.  “I know David has my number, but if there’s anything _you_ need, anytime really,” and she handed it to her.

Martha opened the screen door just a crack to take it from her, putting on a sad smile.  “I’ll let David know you came by; I’m sure he will appreciate it.”  Martha shut the door with a little wave.

Carter turned and walked away, gnawing at her bottom lip.  Tapp was suspended.  Tapp should have been home.  Where the _hell_ had he gone if he wasn’t there?

She got back into her car and drove to the end of the block.  She clicked on her earpiece, “John?”

“Any news?”

“Not much.  Apparently, Tapp came home and then left again.  His wife thinks he’s at work,” she pursed her lips.  She always hated lying to loved ones, but Tapp hadn’t really left her a choice, and there was little she could do about that now.  “How’s by you?”

“Oh, making friends, you know.” Reese said, glibly.  “I decided to try one of the HR hangouts.  Thought I’d visit some of Lionel’s old buddies, but so far no one knows anything.”  

Carter was trying really hard to ignore the groans in the background.  

She rolled up to a red light and stopped, rubbing her shoulder.  “We’re running out of time.  Did Harold get anywhere with the hard-drive?”

“It was too damaged,” he sighed.  “Square one, Carter.  What do we do now?”

“The hard-drive was too damaged for Mr. Wizard?”  Carter blinked at herself in the reflection of the dashboard, and thought that Fusco would have snorted at that.  Her attention went back to the road.  “Does Harold have any other leads?  What about Shaw?”

Reese cleared his throat.  “Harold’s attention is needed on a … personal matter.”

“ _Harold_ has a _personal matter_?”  Carter laid on the gas pretty heavy when the light turned green, tempted to hit the Red and Blues to race over and help her friend.  “Does he need our help?  I’m just thirty minutes outside of Manhattan.”

“Trust me.   _He_ would need to call _us_ first, so right now we’re on our own.”

“But John!”

“He’s a last resort, ok?” Reese said, full voice.  

Carter opened her mouth to say more but closed it.  Whatever Harold had gotten into, she could read what Reese was throwing down – _Not your fight. You stay out of this._

“Got it,” she said, slowing down a little.  “So what bar are you at, I’ll come to you.”

**February 14th, 2013 - 12AM**

Zep was, for all intents and purposes, fine, outside of the occasional coughing fit.  Whatever Jigsaw had given him, it seemed to be very gradual.

Of course, he’d meant Zep to have taken people hostage with the threat of real violence.  So it must have been very slow acting indeed, especially if Harold said the symptoms only started manifesting after he’d been hit on the head.  Reese presumed the increase in blood flow to the brain might have sped up the, still very slow, process.

Reese didn’t really believe it at first.  He watched him like a mother hen, anticipating whatever he could.  He hoped there were things Zep needed, because the more attention he paid to him, the less he would think about the very dangerous mission Harold had just left for.  

Zep was a little uneasy at first, he probably never had anyone dote on him before, but soon they seemed to relax into a rhythm.

Reese brought him some water.  “Well, Zep, what else can I do for you?”  Reese said, sitting almost comfortably.

Zep ducked his head, becoming fascinated with his water.  He was not really making eye contact, but waiting for Reese’s expectant gaze.  “You could tell me more about my brother.”

“Harold is…” he began, but shook his head.  “He’s a very private person.”

“Oh, come on."

Reese thought about it, giving a little shrug.  "He's a very kind, moral, man.  From my estimation, an eccentric zillionaire." he smirked a little but Zep just glared at him. "A very snappy dresser, too."

"Yes, I put that together myself, thanks,” he said, picking at a thread on his knee.

Reese absently wondered if Harold would notice when he got the suit back that a thread was out of alignment.  He crossed his long legs, chuckling.  “I can tell you that you both are … different, and yet, very much alike.”

Zep’s eyes widened.  He kicked off his shoes and curled up on the couch, settling in.  “In what ways?” he asked.

Reese sighed.  "Well," he chose his words wisely, "You both help people."

Zep let loose a cringe worthy laugh. "I help dying people, he seems to help the living," he said, drinking his water. "I'd say that's very different."

Reese seemed to startle into an idea.  "Were you in New York when the towers fell?"

Zep blinked at him. "Yes, I - After the paralysis went away, I drove the workers to and from the site."

Reese cocked his head in a silent question.

“What?”

“Paralysis?  Were you injured?”

Zep let his face fall. "Oh, no, that’s just what I call it.  You were _not_ in New York, I take it," Zep said, almost wistful.

Reese was taken aback. "How can you tell?"

"Everyone who watched it, locally, on television, will tell you that there was a period of frozen time.  Like the whole city was in a period of shock." He took another drink.

"Shock is shock," Reese said.

"Not like this," Zep said sadly. "It was so close to all of us, just a fifteen minute car ride for me, some were closer ... The amount of time is always different, but I called it a paralysis because you found yourself glued to the screen, unable to move, almost unseeing as... As things happened." Zep downed his water.

"Eventually most of us shook out of it, and decided to do _something_ ," he said, admiring the glass before he put it down. "Even if it was just to get on with our everyday lives. As if that was still possible." Zep was fussing with a pocket square, turning it over and over in his hands. “It took me two days.  My hospital would have been too far away, through the thick of the rubble to get to, so for me, I opted to drive the emergency workers home and back to the site for their shifts."

John looked at him, letting the surprised admiration show on his face.

Zep saw it out of his periphery and asked the question to the man’s chair leg, " _What_?"

"That's a very amazing thing you did, Zep."

"Oh yea, driving a car, real hero stuff," and he rolled his eyes half heartedly.

"You should be proud, Zep,” Reese said, allowing the subtext to come through.  He noticed Zep’s side glance and blush in his cheeks.  He was most definitely proud.  “Not a lot of people would do that. You risked a lot."

Reese felt his eyes go slightly misty, and blinked the water away. "And yes, that's ... very similar to the story Harold told me once about his experience," Reese said, letting his voice warm. "He had to do something, too."

"What did _he_ do?"

"Oh no," Reese said, getting up to refill Zep's water. "You ask him that yourself," he raised his voice from the kitchen.  He came back into the room, bringing a glass and a pitcher.

"Thank you," Zep said, looking drowsy.

"Are you tired?" He let a smile cross his face, he didn’t even bother putting the water down. "I'm pretty sure there's at least one bedroom on this whole top floor."

Zep laughed, staring at the ceiling again. "That sounds really good, actually." Zep said, standing up.

Reese led him through the main rooms into a parlor. He unlocked a door and Zep felt surrounded by other doors, each across from another, like a Scooby Doo cartoon. "Third door down, and to the right," Reese said.

Zep faced a large oak door, with a slightly smaller, and amazingly intricate, etching of a tree full of birds. He gave a shy look behind him at Reese, who nodded with a little _go on_ expression.

He'd expected more resistance, but the door gave way easily, and he nearly fell into what can only be described as a _gargantuan_ master bedroom.  "Wow," he said, awestruck.

There were massive closets to his right and a desk with full armoire to his left. A small chest sat atop a dresser that looked like it was made of the same wood as the door. Reese walked in stealthily behind him and put down the water next to the bed, which was turned down and some night clothes laid out for him.

Zep was lost in his thoughts.  He always had more money than he knew what to do with, but that was nothing compared to the amount of money he could see here. Sure, it was more than he'd ever see in his life, but he marveled at the care and attention Harold had taken in spreading it around the place. He went for lavish but somehow not _over the top_ things, and Zep was convinced he was trying to spoil himself, and maybe his brother in the process. He didn't really like hand outs, but...

Zep shook his head a little, leaning on the wall as a coughing fit approached.  Reese came to his side and did his best to keep him stable.  This one hit him harder than the others.  He helped him to the bed, and nudged him to sit down on it.

Zep looked up at him, his eyes sort of hovering around Reese’s chest, voice quiet.  “Am I going to die?”

Reese stiffened.  “No, Zep, you’re not going to die.”

“Jigsaw wants to kill me.  What if he finds out you two are helping me?” Zep looked him in the eyes suddenly.  “I’ve put you both into grave danger, John.”

“It’s what we do,” John said, shrugging.  “We put ourselves into danger everyday.  I’m just glad we were able to do something for you this time.  I know Harold is, too.”  Glad might be an overstatement, John thought.  But it was the closest thing he had to a comforting thought at the moment.

Zep sort of blinked and shook his head as a yawn escaped.  He had a different thought that made him avert his eyes.  "Do you think... Will Harold let me stay?"

Reese cocked his head to the side. "I don't really know," he answered honestly. "You'd have to ask him that too." Zep wasn't a man to be coddled, since Reese wanted Zep to take charge of his life as much as he could.  

Zep shook his head again, struggling to keep his eyes open.  "What happens to the other people you help?"

Reese thought about that for a minute. "It depends," he said. "But, more than a few, opt for a new life outside of New York. You could probably go wherever you want."

Reese picked up the blanket, realizing that Zep was too tired to get out of his clothes.  Zep moved into the bed, almost greedily.  "I don't want to go anywhere," he said, quietly into the din, letting out a wild laugh as he curled around a soft feathery pillow. "I'd like to stay," he said.

"Then you should tell Harold," Reese said, clearing his throat. "Let's keep you safe first, alright?"  He tucked him in, as he heard a muffled affirmation.  

*

Reese walked over to the desk and sat down, letting his thoughts wander a bit.  Once he heard a gentle snoring, he tapped his earwig.  “Harold - everything alright?”

Reese could hear Harold’s heavy breathing.  “As. Can. Be. Expected.” Harold tapped back in code.

Reese sat up straighter.  “Everyone … safe and sound?” Reese whispered, trying to keep his voice level.  He knew his friend wasn’t cut out for this kind of assignment but Harold had insisted and Reese knew he’d have to live with the consequences.

The breathing seemed to slow.  “Yes.” Came the tapping again.  “Zep.”

“Sleeping for now.  He’s a very interesting person.  His condition hasn’t changed, but he’s in moderately good spirits.”  Perhaps Harold needed a distraction, too.

A sigh, followed by, “Good. Don’t. Let. Him. Out. Of. Your. Sight.”

“Of course,” Reese took in a breath and closed his eyes.  “You contact me if there’s anything I can do and I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.  It’s going to be ok, Finch.”

“We. Can. Only. Hope.”

**February 14th, 2013 - 12:10AM**

_“We. Can. Only. Hope.”_ Harold tapped, letting out a great sigh, and shutting off the call.

He attempted to bring the system online by sheer willpower, knowing that Jigsaw had thought of everything and he was _almost_ completely cut off, save for the one way calls to John in morse code.  He began beating the keys in front of him, the crinkle between his eyebrows becoming more prominent and his breath quickening.

Without anything else to do, with his whole team working on other things, Harold Finch slowly realized he was living the worst possible outcome of any other case that they’d yet worked.  No other way to help his friends, except to ensure the safety of these two people, who thought he was a murderer, he did his best to try and keep his thoughts blank.

That did not last long.

Zep said he hadn’t known he was a twin. Then again, neither had Harold, though, he was at an even worse disadvantage, never having known ... He couldn't even think the word let alone say it out loud. His father had never given him any indication that he was…  He swallowed.  

Adopted, he thought, and the bile rose again.  He took some deep breaths.  He tried to think of the whole situation like an equation and let his face take on a twisted smile.  Adoption agencies… Or just flat out charities, he scoffed to himself, probably thought it was easier to adopt one child instead of siblings.  His parents probably never knew that Zep had a brother, even though they were a part of the system.  That amount of paperwork doesn’t always fill in the gaps, or worse, it can create more mysteries.

Harold was looking everywhere but at his reflection in the dark monitors.  His eye would occasionally catch himself in this disguise, and he could see the new _brother_ he’d just left behind.  Harold was almost positive someone close to him had been abusive.  Couldn’t have been his mom.  One of the other kids, maybe.  What a terrible childhood he must have had, and it was written all over him.  

Zep, the brother who didn’t even know Harold’s real name.  Still, he was fairly well adjusted for someone who just found out he had a long lost brother.

The worst part though, was that no matter how many times Harold tried to remind himself that Zep had it really bad, he felt sick with envy over the inescapable fact that Zep _knew._  He’d gone through it all _knowing_ he was adopted.  

Even with the full knowledge, from such a young age, Harold wondered if it had been a comfort being disconnected from such dismal surroundings.  But, facts were facts.  He was definitely more adjusted than Harold in this moment, who couldn’t help the rise of jealousy in his chest, a lump he couldn’t swallow past.  Zep had, inadvertently, dumped everything on Harold’s doorstep all at once without warning, and Harold tried to remember that it wasn’t his fault.

He shook his head.  The story Harold knew was much different and he could recite it from memory like the first codes he created in college.  

His parents had met in high school in Iowa.  They went steady for a while after graduation and were soon married.  His dad worked as a mechanic and his mom did her best with sewing and laundry, to save up as much as they could.  They’d waited to have kids but they couldn’t afford a child, not till his father had his own garage, which did happen eventually.  

When he was born, his father had told him, there was a complication and she died.  He would get a dreamy sort of look in his eye, and say “But not before Lois held you, son,” and he’d smile.  “She said you were her precious little bird.  Lois loved you very much.”  

That had been the name Harold’s father had given her, Lois.  He supposed now that his father had never known Katherine was his mother’s name.  He didn’t think too much of it, since he was always close to his dad, and that was always enough for him.  They had each other.  This story had always made sense.  It was why his father was so much older than other fathers.  

He hated to admit it, but the adoption now fit much better.  Maybe Lois had been real.  Harold would have liked to think so.  He did find pictures and maybe she died, either in childbirth with their real son, or in some other terrible way.  Maybe she’d been a figment of his imagination for comforting a small orphan boy who he loved very much.  Maybe his dad just needed something to love so he went looking for Harold.  

Harold was picking apart the pieces of his life and suddenly realized there was a time towards the end that he couldn’t understand at all.  The doctors had told him it was normal, but Harold always felt raw about it.  

It was near the beginning of his memory problems.  At some point, he completely stopped talking about Lois.  He even once forgot that he’d been married at all, and Harold had to convince him that he had been.  “You just forgot,” Harold had said.  “Remember Lois?  She was the love of your life.”  He’d just touched Harold’s shoulder, shook his head and sadly smiled at Harold, scuttling off to do something else.  It broke Harold’s heart at the time, but now he supposed, even in his addled brain, he was still trying to spare Harold from the lies he’d told.

*

Harold wiped his face with a bandana he’d found in Zep’s pocket.  He longed for the cottony softness of his handkerchief, but that was a luxury he couldn’t indulge in.  He got up resolutely and made his way slowly into the bedroom, where Alison and Diana were tied up.  They did their best to cower away from him and he cocked his head, looking at them sideways.

He had to get in very close to check the restraints. He checked the mother’s first, Alison, a very mild mannered housewife, who occasionally argued with her husband.  She’d been his secretary before they’d gotten married, and most of their arguments were about his wandering eye.  Diana was about six, and smart as a tack.  She’d known there was someone in the room, but her parents didn’t believe her.  It was a strange coincidence that they, thankfully, didn’t check the closet when he’d hidden himself there.

She cringed and tried to move away from him, closer to her mother.

Harold broke inside, and leaned in before he could stop himself.  "Diana, now I know you're scared," he told her, keeping his voice as level as he could and barely moving his lips. "But this is all just pretend. Everything is going to be fine." He touched her head gently and she gave a little cry, inching closer to Alison.

Even though the mother’s mouth had a towel wrapped around it, she struggled against it, shouting at him.  At one point he could clearly make out the word monster. He turned his face towards hers. He wasn't a monster, if they could only understand he was here to save them...

He took a breath and the seconds felt like years.  You are not Harold, right now, you’re Zep, he thought to himself. And Jigsaw could be watching.

He let out the breath.  He couldn't quite get to menacing, but instead he let his eyes go glassy, and moved his jacket enough to show her the gun.  Alison quieted almost instantly, her head leaning towards her daughter as they both cried big silent tears.

Harold straightened up. He felt secure in their restraints and left them in the bedroom, tied around one of the posts on the bed.

He walked out into the living room, dazed.  He touched his face, the nauseous feeling did not go away this time, and he knew he was going to be sick.  Harold made his way into the bathroom, coughing and spitting into the sink.

After he cleaned himself off, he leaned his forehead on the cool surface of the mirror, keeping his eyes clenched so that he wouldn’t see Zep peering back at him. Moving slowly back out towards the makeshift console on the dining room table, he sat abruptly, checking the feeds which were still dark, and put his head in both hands.

He turned his attention to the big digital clock that had also been in the packages that arrived.  It’s slow tick was the only soothing thing he had going on right now.  He took big gulping breaths and attempted to calm his thoughts as much as he could, letting the numbers pull him into a somewhat dreamless sleep.

**February 14th, 2013 - 2AM**

Gordon left Mercer and Franklin, walking sluggishly.  

Nothing seemed to be making sense.  Not the conversation with Alison or the woman he just left up in the room.  Not his practice and the paperwork he was behind on.  Not even his child seemed to bring him happiness right now, and he couldn’t understand why he felt so …

He let himself in and walked the rows to his car.  The late hour only had a skeleton crew working in the practically abandoned parking lot, and the regular guy was probably off having his break.

Groaning, he draped his jacket over his arm.  He gritted his teeth, thinking that his briefcase felt heavier, yet had fewer things in it.  

He stopped, leaning on the trunk of his car, and rubbed his eyes.

Suddenly there was a flash of… something.  

He looked around, but could see nothing, except the blinking light by the exit.  That had to be it, he thought.  He rubbed his neck with one hand as he got out his keys with the other.

Rolling up to the exit, he cursed.  He hadn’t been paying attention and wasn’t close enough to the ticket machine, so he had to get out and take care of it manually.  

That would be the last thing he remembered.


	6. You're Being Watched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the games begin...

**February 13th, 2013 - 11:15PM**

There were no security cameras outside the building, a thankful sigh escaped him as he only just managed to climb up into the apartment itself.

He went through Dr. Gordon’s things, searching for audio and visual recording devices. He tried to be as calm about it as possible, employing the guise of curiosity. He couldn't find any inside their home, but that didn't mean he should take too many chances. Jigsaw was smart, and to underestimate him meant people died.

Harold considered leaving, just turning around and going back to the safe house. Too late now, he thought. He hid the boxes that were there when he arrived, a big note on them to do so and where to do so, put his Taser in his pocket, and got under the sheet, cloaking himself in the daughter’s closet.

He did some deep breathing before he heard the door unlock, the happy family coming back from the movies. Harold quieted himself and stood still.

"Come on, Diana, time for bed," the mother called. “I’ll come by to tuck you in soon.”

The little girl came stumbling towards her bedroom when Harold stepped on a squeaking floor board. He heard Diana stop walking, her breathing erratic, and listened as her steps receded. Harold was shaking. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to breathe more calmly.

From across the apartment he could hear the conversation.

Alison coming to her daughter, _"Diana, you ok? Sweet Pea, what’s wrong?"_

_"There's a man in my room."_ Diana’s tiny voice was like ice water on Harold’s skin, and he could feel the gooseflesh rise.

He heard Alison sigh. His sigh echoed hers, as he released the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Small mercies for a child’s nightmares, he thought.

_"Oh, Diana, we talked about this, it's just your imagination."_

_"Can Daddy come? He can take care of the scary man."_

His breath left him again, as he felt all the blood in his body rush to his feet. It was a marvel he was able to stay upright; the adrenaline not letting him drop.

He couldn’t hear much of the conversation between the two parents, but when he started hearing the approaching footsteps, he tapped his earwig

_Finch, what's wrong?... Finch?_

Gordon walked into the room, “See?” He picked up his daughter and deposited her into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chest. “There’s no one in your room, no such thing as the bad man!” Harold held his breath.

_Zep, I thought you said Gordon wouldn't be home!_

“I’m still scared,” Diana said, clutching at her doll.

_He shouldn't, I mean... He always goes to see his latest conquest on Thursday nights._

Harold listened and stared at the ceiling as Gordon and Diana played “This Little Piggy” with her toes. He started mentally counting the first few numbers of pi to calm himself down.

_Harold, we have to abort if he's there. This was already tenuous when it was just a child and her mother, but now you are severely outnumbered. And then there’s the matter of Jigsaw needing him for a game, which could start at any minute._

Harold looked down at his shoes, the comfortable but scoffed sneakers Zep had worn almost completely through, and made a stalwart resolution to not cry.

_Can you get out?_

Harold's jaw set. He leaned his head to pick up the sound of the sheet brushing against his head, very carefully.

_Right... Plan B, I'm coming to get you._

The unmistakable noise of a pager going off, cut through their game on the bed.

Harold relaxed only just, as he could almost hear John relax through the phone. _Is that what I think it is?_

“I hate that thing,” Diana said.

“Well, I have to go to work, sweetheart,” and Gordon’s tone had completely shifted to a blank slate. “You know what Daddy’s job is like.”

He seemed to shake it off as he tucked her back in, all smiles. “Tomorrow, I’ll read your favorite story,” and kissed her goodnight, leaving the room.

Harold closed his eyes and his heart slowed just enough for him to stop fretting for the moment.

_Ok Finch, Showtime. Remember what I showed you and... happy hunting. The call clicked off._

Harold waited to hear the front door close with a finality to the whole ordeal, but apparently the Gordon’s were about to have a domestic.

_"How can you walk through life pretending that you’re happy?”_

_“I am happy.”_

_“That is complete bullshit! I’d rather you break down and tell me that you hated me. At least there’d be some passion in it.”_

Diana held her teddy bear close and bit her lips, trying to shut out the fighting. Harold’s lips pursed.

_“We can talk about this later, ok?”_

_“Just… Leave.”_

The door, finally, slammed shut and Harold flexed his fingers. He knew he had to act fast.  
Harold pushed the door open and Diana screamed. He flipped the sheet up over his head and wrapped her in it, pulling the gun from his waist. With a shaking finger, and even though the safety was on, he was holding it so that his finger was nowhere near the trigger.

“Diana!?” Alison came crashing into the room and took in the site of Harold holding a gun trained on her daughter's head. Diana wasn’t struggling, but Harold could swear he could feel her heartbeat flutter as he braced her tightly against him.

“Mrs. Gordon,” Harold said, calmly and with as little emotion as he could muster. “Follow my instructions. No one has to get hurt.”

“Don’t you hurt a hair on her head you psy –”

“I really don’t think you’re in a position to make threats, Mrs. Gordon.” Harold’s hand was steady as he tossed zip ties onto the bed. “Pick those up. Go into your bedroom. Tie yourself to the bed. If you scream, if you run, I will shoot your daughter.” He nudged the gun closer to rest against Diana’s temple. “Move slowly, I’ll follow you,” he said, with the barest amount of force.

She turned, and Harold steeled himself, following at a steady slow pace.

**February 14th, 2013 - 1:50AM**

Shaw shook her head as she tried to stay awake.

She was secretly patting herself on the back for making her first stop Adam’s apartment, even though she wanted desperately to take a shower afterwards. She’d left a handful of listening devices and cameras. If she’d been paying enough attention to the time, she would have realized he’d come back in the middle of her home invasion. She became very grateful very quickly for realizing the fire escape was in easy grappling distance.

Listening to him make a few phone calls and order take out did nothing for her growing appetite, but she didn’t waver.

Shaw hadn’t fully realized he was on a case until she followed him to this gloomy parking lot near Mercer and Franklin. She watched him snap pictures of a tall blond blue-eyed man in a suit, coming out of a hotel near there, and then slipping into the parking lot. She had no idea who he was, but she didn’t think he was the threat. He looked like a lawyer with a very well compartmentalized life.

Adam brought his camera up to his eye and snapped a picture of the blond, just as he was leaning against, what she could only assume was his car.

She snorted at the back of her throat as she watched the blonde try and find the source of the flash, just as Adam went for cover. “Amateur,” she mumbled under her breath. Adam cursed himself and went for the exit. Shaw followed, smirking the whole time.

**February 14th, 2013 – 3AM**

Back to the dreary apartment.

Adam was developing pictures in his makeshift lab when his cell phone rang. He went out to answer it. Shaw activated her earwig to listen in, waiting from the alley way under the fire escape, just in case.

“Yes, yes, detective, I've been following him all day.”

“And?”

Shaw checked the caller ID. Detective Tapp. Why did that name sound familiar…?

Shaw listened as Adam took a beer out of the fridge and cracked it. “The good doctor went to work, went out with his family, went home. He wasn’t there long though; he left again to check into a skeevy hotel room with one of his lady doctor friends, to put in some overtime I'm sure. He was out of there an hour later. He got back into his car and went home again.” Shaw heard him pull on the beer hard, and noted he didn’t tell Tapp about running away before he saw the Doctor go home.

Doctor. Detective Tapp. Shaw blinked very hard to keep her eyes open.

“Well, you stay on Doctor Gordon, and report -”

“Report directly to you if I find anything. I know how to do my job,” he said, downing the rest of the beer and crushing it. “You just make sure to have the rest of my money when we nail the son of a bitch for… whatever it is we’re nailing him for.”

Shaw ducked down for cover behind a dumpster and pressed hard on her earwig. “Finch? Finch, you there?”

_Shaw, what is it?_

“...Reese? Where's Finch?”

_Working another case._

“Zep Hindle?”

_...Yea, why? What's wrong?_

“We're working the same case,” Shaw said. “Adam, the guy I'm tailing, he's got to be connected to Zep.”

_What makes you say that?_

“He's taking pictures of one of the doctors Zep works for.”

_Are you sure?_

“Just a name, but I need Harold to check for me.” Shaw picked up her phone and sorted through her pictures. She sent Reese one of the shots she got of Dr. Gordon leaving the hotel. She opened another app to access one of the security feeds she put in. Adam was making himself a sandwich. Her stomach grumbled.

“That’s apparently the face, but I know the name. Finch said a ‘Doctor Gordon’ had written Zep up a couple times. He thought it could be a possible threat. But he put me on the case so fast, I never got a look at the picture and Finch was probably a little too… distracted… When I worked the hospital, he was off, so I had no idea what he looked like.”

Adam walked back in to continue developing the pictures, scratching his head. “Another thing,” Shaw said, keeping her voice low. “What's the name of that detective that's gone AWOL? The one that worked with Fusco?”

_Detective Tapp, but what’s he got to –?_

“Well, he hired Adam to watch Doctor Gordon.” Shaw said, pinching her nose. “This is a lot bigger than we originally thought. Where is Finch? I need more intel.”

There was some rustling on the line and then, _You should get out of there, Shaw._

“You, what?” she snarked, letting a breathy laugh escape. “Oh, no you don’t.”

_Shaw, listen –_

“No, you listen.” Shaw almost broke her phone; she was clutching it so hard. “I don’t need this from the both of you. It’s bad enough when Harold decides to play his very own version of The Parent Trap and take over my milk run,” she said, finding the need to walk from the edge of the building and back to the dumpster a few times, “and now you’re telling me to lay off this terrible, shoddy private investigator!? I know sometimes you think it’s the two of you against the rest of the world, but these cases are easy. You can take the training wheels off.”

_Shaw? You done?_

“What!”

_You’re half right._

“What?” she said, confused.

_These cases are linked. But they aren’t milk runs. They’re connected to the Jigsaw murders._

Shaw stopped pacing. “How do you know that?” she asked, and looked at her phone again to check on Adam.

_The reason Zep bailed on you. It’s because he got Jigsaw’s calling card. An invitation to a game._

“Is he alright?”

_In a manner of speaking… Harold went in his place._

“He WHAT?”

_He’s handling it._

“This is what you call ‘handling it’?! Why didn’t you call me in?”

_Because you’re on a case of your own._

“This doesn’t even rank as a – ” Shaw stopped talking as she checked the video feed again. She watched, her eyes getting wider, as a hooded figure was dragging Adam’s incapacitated body out of one of his closets. She cursed.

_Shaw? What is it?_

Shaw cursed again. “I gotta go, I’ll check in in an hour. Don’t let anyone else do anything stupid while I’m away!” and she cut off the call. How could she be so dumb? As soon as she heard the word Jigsaw, she should have sprung into action and climbed the damn fire escape, stupid, stupid.

She hopped into the apartment, crouching, her gun in her hands. Adam was laying on the floor and the hooded figure was nowhere to be seen. “Hey buddy,” she said into the darkness. “Look, I’ve had a really long night. Could we just cut to the fighting?”

She was sweeping the room, but it was too dark for her to really see and she fought the urge to go for her flashlight. Instead, she closed her eyes and listened carefully. There was a clatter to her right so she swung around and connected with something solid. She heard a grunt and tried to grab for an arm, but it wasn’t a person, felt more like a pile of twigs.

She cursed again when she felt a sting like a needle enter her arm. She clawed at whatever had her, but they dropped her, unceremoniously, to the ground, and her grip failed. She fell, shoulder first, and tried to get back onto her feet. It was no use, the darkness was getting blacker, and then she couldn’t keep her eyes open any more.

February 14th, 2013 – 2pm

Adam woke up underwater. He gasped and sputtered, trying to raise himself up, to stand, even as the water drained around him. He clawed at the smooth walls of, wherever the hell he was, and managed to heave himself out, giving a screech of pain as he hit the cold hard floor.

He stood up shakily, feeling something cold and metallic around his ankle, the distinctive sound of chains, and groped them, following it back to a large round metal pipe. He let out a scream, “Hey, help! Somebody help me!”

There was a scuffle in the darkness, but he couldn’t see anything. “S-Someone there?” Quiet again. He crossed his arms shivering. He cursed, “Maybe I’m dead,” he swallowed hard.

“You’re not dead,” came a voice from the black.

“Who is it? Who’s there?”

He heard a grunt and then the voice sighed, “There’s no point in yelling, I’ve already tried.”

“Turn on the lights!”

“If I could, don’t you think they’d be on already?”

“What is going on? Where am I?” Adam frantically groped at the wall, trying to find anything.

“I haven’t the vaguest idea.”

“What is that smell?” Adam was trying not to wretch.

“Wait, wait, hang on, I think I’ve got something here,” and suddenly, with a loud buzzing sound, there was light. Adam cringed in the sudden glare and stared blankly at … at Dr. Gordon … He barely registered that he, too, was tied to a pipe with a very similar looking metal chain and cuff around his leg. Well, he didn’t know what fresh hell this was, but Detective Tapp was certainly going to be giving him a boatload more cash than his original asking price. His shook his head, realizing he’d been staring, and then saw something at his feet.

A man was on the floor. He was pale and lying face down in a puddle of blood with a gun in one hand and something Adam couldn’t identify in the other.

It took a few seconds for his brain to catch up with him. Cursing, he let out a gasp and fell to the floor, scuttling away from the scene. He turned his back on Dr. Gordon and wretched in the corner. Tapp could keep his money, he absently thought, if only he was able to get out of here alive.

He crawled over to the pipe and started yanking on the chains, “Help,” he screamed again. “Help!!”

“No one can hear you,” Dr. Gordon said, beginning to sound exasperated. “Calm down, just calm down.” Gordon was looking at him critically and for a moment Adam thought he’d been found out. “Are you hurt?”

Adam dropped his eyes, checking himself for anything. “I don’t know…” and he looked over at the chain, giving it a yank, “yea?”

“My name is Lawrence Gordon, I’m a doctor. I just woke up here, just like you.” Gordon took his sleeve and wiped his face, and then proceeded to watch Adam try again with the pipe, yanking the chains a little more carefully and trying to get the cuff itself off. He didn’t succeed and screamed in pain.

Gordon glanced at the man on the floor. “Recognize him?”

Adam continued to pull on the chains. “No.”

Lawrence gritted his teeth. “Any idea how you got here?”

“No.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I was getting ready for bed in my crappy apartment and woke up in an actual crapper.” Adam finally stopped fiddling with the chains and the cuff and slowly looked over at Dr. Gordon.

“I can’t quite… I was on my way home from work and uh, I can’t remember anything else.” Gordon leaned on one of the metal pipes, looking very pale.

Adam avoided his glance by looking at the dead body. “First dead body I’ve ever seen. Look different in real life. They don’t move,” he inched, trying to get closer, the shock having worn off for the most part.

“Yea,” Gordon said, poking at his cuff. “From the looks of these, it seems someone doesn’t want us going very far either.”

A thought occurred. Adam leapt to his feet frantically adjusting his clothing. “Do you see any scars?” He turned the exposed skin to Dr. Gordon.

“What?”

“This is how it happens, man! They kidnap you, drug you, and before you know it, you’re lying in a bathtub,” and he turned to indicate the metal basin he’d crawled out of, “and you’re kidneys are on eBay!”

Dr. Gordon waved the explanation away, dismissal. “No one has taken your kidneys,” he growled, pinching his nose. “You’d be in terrible agony or you’d be dead by now, trust me.”

“What are you, a surgeon?”

“Yes!” Lawrence said, glaring at him. “So you gonna tell me your name, or what?”

He stilled. “Adam,” he swallowed. “My name is Adam.”


	7. Live or Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold tries to maintain his sanity in an unclear world, while Reese investigates a new number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, things are about to get really rough for poor Harold. Hang in there!

** Chapter Seven – LIVE OR DIE **

** February 14th, 2013 – 11am **

“Hey Shaw, you there?”  She was overdue.  This wasn’t good.  He gave it another few minutes, and added, “Get back to me.”

Reese pushed the door open to the local bodega down the street (from even Harold’s ritzy safehouse), hearing the little bell jingle and nodding to Ibrahim behind the counter.  He gave the cat a quick pet and walked through, grabbing some sundries on his way. He overpaid, of course, and headed back to the apartment.

“Zep?  You up?” he shouted, shutting the door behind him and securing it.  He put the bags down, and a good thing too, because when he turned, he could see Zep was curled up on the couch, shivering.  “You don’t look so good,” Reese said, making the journey in a couple of strides, and taking his temperature. 

“Symptom,” He said, his teeth chattering.  “Can’t seem to … get warm.”

He felt clammy, but otherwise wasn’t running a fever.  Reese, carefully, lifted him up and brought him back to his room.  “Why did you get out of bed?” Zep didn’t answer, he just kept shivering.  He clung to him like he was a lifeline.  And maybe he was.

Reese put the covers over him and found a larger comforter in the closet.  He tried his best to secure the blankets around every possible exposed bit of Zep.  He stood back, adding an extra little tuck here and there.  “You always this difficult when you’re sick?” he asked, giving him side-eye.

“I’m not just sick, John, I’m dying.” He said between twitches.

Reese looked affronted.  “We’re not going to let that happen.  Besides, this is on the caliber of a bad cold.” He tried to remember this wasn’t Harold he was talking to, but the face staring back at him was definitely covered in Finch disapproval.  “I got you something,” he said, heading back to grab the groceries and brought them straight into the room.  He took out a large two-liter bottle of Ginger Ale and placed it next to the bed.

Zep made a face before he could stop himself and then, apologetically, asked “You got a beer in there?"  He tried to be subtle about peering inside the bag.

"I thought you'd say that," Reese smirked.  There was a tearing sound as he pulled out a can and cracked it, before handing it to him.  Zep drank it almost as fast as his coffee that morning.  "Are you always this thirsty?"

Zep shook his head. "Symptom," he repeated.  The shivering seemed to have slowed and his teeth weren’t chattering anymore.

"Well, what kind of nurse would I be if I let you live on beer alone," Reese said, evading Zep's grab for another one and bringing them into the kitchen.

He chuckled to himself and cuddled further into the blankets.  "I am a medical professional," Zep shouted after him, finding that his words were already slurring. 

Reese walked briskly back into the room with a fresh pitcher of warm water.  "What you are is a light weight." 

"Did you learn that following me?" he asked, sniffling, as his pallor improved.  Zep inched over to the side table, still in his blanket cocoon and Reese mused that Finch had probably been this ill and done this same thing. 

He shrugged, considering him for a moment.  “Maybe the others did, but I have a nose for these things.”  He poured him a glass and helped him to drink it.

“Others?” Zep asked after a few swallows.  “You mean Harold, right?”

Reese nodded, biting his lip, “Yea, I mean Harold.” He blinked a little too hard.

Zep moved back from him, suddenly very wary.  "How many more people does Harold have working for him?” 

Reese sighed and put the glass down.  “The less you know about us the safer you'll be.”

“Yea, but, if it wasn’t Harold,” the penny dropped with an especially nasty clatter. “Dr. Gray, it was Dr. Gray wasn’t it?”

Reese only observed him, giving him as blank a face as he could muster.  He was sure it all made sense now, in a terrifying way, why Dr. Gray couldn’t take her eyes off of him.  He probably thought it was just because he was odd, since it had always been just because he was odd. 

But now he appeared to feel even more like an outsider.  Zep shook his head.  Having regained most of his body heat, he was sweating now.  “I knew it was too good to be true.  So, all that time she was just, what, pretending?  Pumping me for information?”

Reese made an effort not to wince.  “No one makes her do anything she doesn’t want to do,” he said, putting a tentative hand on Zep’s back.  “She doesn’t waste her time on people she doesn’t think are worth it.  If she got to know you, then you are something special.”

Zep looked miserable and dejected, but he gave Reese a meek smile.  “Well, it was the nicest not-date I’ve had in a long time.” 

It was a cold comfort, Reese new.  He had been in the spy game long enough to understand the betrayal of being a mark. 

He wanted to say more, something to offer support, but then his earpiece went off.  “Excuse me,” he said, walking into the other room. 

He scribbled down the number on a pad of paper and turned on the laptop.  He was still a novice compared to Finch, but he’d watched the master long enough to pick up a trick or two.

“John Kramer,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What was that about John Kramer?”

Reese turned to see his patient stumbling into the room, still in his blanket.  “Zep, you're going to make me tie you down again if you don't stay in bed.”

“Promises, promises,” he grumbled, continuing to walk, as much as the blanket would allow him without toppling over, towards the laptop Reese had forgotten to shut down.  “Is Mr. Kramer in trouble?”

John blinked, and leaned forward. “You know him?”

Zep nodded. “He's one of the patients I look after.  He's...” It was only after John kept watching him that he added, “He’s my _only_ friend.  Is he ok?”

“I'm not sure Zep, but I'm going to have some people check on him. Any idea where he’d be?”

Zep shrugged, “I only saw him when he came in for his cancer treatment. It's been a while.”

Reese nodded.  He excused himself again, going into the kitchen and tapping his earpiece.  “Shaw, if you get this... We’ve got another number…”

He drummed his fingers on the counter, before tapping his earpiece again.  “Carter?”

_Long time no speak.  I managed to squeeze out a couple of leads, should we meet up?_

Carter sounded exhausted and Reese could already feel the pit of his stomach fall as he knew she was overworked and not up to any request he needed.  He swallowed.  “I’m in the middle of something here.  I was calling to see how you were holding up.”

Carter sighed, _I’m sure it’s very important.  I’m doing ok, John.  I just want to make sure Fusco’s ok too.  It’s been too long, I’m worried._

Reese nodded.  “How’s Lee doing?”

_Misses his Dad._

“Yea, we all do.  Hang in there, Carter.  If things get hairy you know you can always call me.”

_I will, John.  Thanks._   She hung up.

Reese came back into the room.  Zep was still in his blanket.  He’d been snuggled up to the screen, but looked up and peered over to where John was leaning, watching him with a strange kind of intensity.  “What is it?”

“Well, Zep,” Reese said, standing up a little straighter.  “I have a dilemma.”  He sniffed, running his fingers absently over his pantleg.  “I think I need to check on your friend, personally, and I need to take you with me.  Think you’re ok to travel?”

Zep stood up a little straighter and took off the blanket.  “Give me ten minutes.”

** February 14th, 2013 - 1pm **

Harold was vaguely aware that he was dreaming, but it didn’t make the feelings any less sharp.  He was wandering around the farmhouse he grew up in, looking for his father.  He couldn’t find him but he did find a small boy, sitting alone in the center of one of the rooms crying.  He was just about to enter and check on him, when a smoke alarm went off somewhere and he startled awake. 

For the briefest of moments, he thought he’d woken up in his library.  But no, this apartment was getting increasingly familiar. He checked the time, 1PM. 

The beeping was coming from the makeshift console Jigsaw had instructed him to put together.  There was a little flashing light in the crude elementary keyboard.

He rubbed his shoulder and tried to stretch, his back protesting so much he stopped, cringed, and carefully repeated the movement.

The beeping was practically drilling into his skull.  "Yes, yes, what -" he seemed to bark at no one, but himself. 

There was a tiny message in the bottom corner.

_FRONT CLOSET. TOP SHELF ON THE RIGHT._

He swallowed.  Harold was fully awake all of a sudden.

He went to the closet and pulled down a shoebox. It clattered and the contents shifted, but nothing fell out.  Bracing the box on a small table in the hallway, and after rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he opened it.  Inside he found an old Polaroid camera.

No sooner had he pulled it out of the box, blowing some of the dust off and examining, that a tiny piece of paper fluttered down. He bent to pick it up. On it was typed the words:

LEAVE THE PICTURE IN THE ENVELOPE AND HANG IT ON THE FRONT DOOR

– TELL THEM TO SAY CHEESE –

Harold closed his eyes. His hands were shaking, and he felt himself over balance, as he braced himself on the table.  He wanted to crumble.  He wanted to call it all off.  He made his way back to the desk, put the materials down and sunk into the chair.

Harold clenched his eyes tight.  Think of John’s matter of fact demeanor, he yelled inside his head.  Think of Shaw’s businesslike handling of these same situations, you can do this – he stood.

He took the camera back out and made his way into the bedroom.  Alison and Diana had been sleeping, but they woke up at the sound of the door.  Diana hid as much as she could behind her mother.

“Mrs. Gordon,” Harold heard his voice go very quiet and calculating.  “If you and little Diana would be so kind,” he raised the camera quickly and took their picture before they had the time to flinch.  “There, that’s done,” He said, almost more to himself then to them.  “I’ll fetch you something to eat.”  Alison and Diana stared at him with wide open red eyes and he did his best to not react at all, turning to leave. 

He took the image out of the camera, watching it resolve into their terrified faces.  He put the picture into the envelope, almost numb, and brought it to the front door, hanging the bag there for Jigsaw to collect. 

Harold froze, his mind racing.  For Jigsaw to collect, he thought again, blinking. 

Jigsaw would have to be here, on the other side of the door, just feet from where I’m standing, he thought.  I could save us all a lot of grief if I could just catch him…

He didn’t shut the door entirely, he merely rested it, letting a crack of light show through as he backed away.  He leaned from one direction to another, hoping to see what his best vantage point was.  He was quiet, listening carefully.

There _were_ footsteps coming down the hallway.  He didn’t breathe.  They stopped.  He tried to lean to see who it was, but the floor creaked under foot.  Just as he was stifling a curse, there was a little pop behind him. 

Harold turned wide eyes on the camera, which was now smoking.  Quickly, he threw Zep’s leather jacket over it, bringing it into the bathroom and tossing it in the shower, turning the cold water on full.  Just as the smoke was stopping, he raced back, as much as he could, to the front door, but the envelope and the picture was gone.

** February 14th, 2013 – 1:45pm **

Reese pulled up to a small apartment complex in a bad part of the Bronx and turned off the engine.  It was somewhat near the hospital, but dismal looking and practically abandoned.  He couldn’t imagine anyone living there. 

Zep got out of the car.  He’d managed to find what Reese assumed was the one t-shirt that Harold owned and a pair of dark slacks.  He had a blazer with him.  Reese made sure to grab one of Harold’s heavy winter coats, but the chill he was experiencing was so intermittent, Zep left it in the backseat. 

He looked up at the dilapidated building.  “Like I said, I never knew where he lived.  We only ever met up at the hospital.”  His face scrunched up as if he could smell something foul in the air.  “Why would he live here?”

Reese shrugged.  He came around the car and stood next to Zep.  “You stay close to me, got it?  You doing ok?”  Zep nodded a little too hard. Reese had very little choice, but to keep moving forward.  

“Let’s go.”

** February 14th, 2013 - 2pm **

Harold blinked as he suddenly heard voices coming from the computer speakers.  “Hello?” he said.  Looking at the screen, he could see no visual yet, but without a mic, there was little he could tell them anyway. 

After another voice could be heard, the screen shivered into a black and white scene, slowly glowing to life.  He squinted at the screen, trying to make out the puppets in this poor little drama.  The horror of their surroundings made him feel like he was going to be sick again, the look on Dr. Gordons face, the terrible unidentifiable mess on the walls, what appeared to be a dead body between them, but the face of Adam in that cell made his blood run cold. 

Harold tapped his earpiece.  Soon the unmistakable voice of John Reese.  _Something the matter, Harold?_

“Not. Just. Gordon. Adam. Captured. Too.”

_That might explain why Shaw hasn’t checked in.  I’m worried Jigsaw might have gotten her, too._

Harold stilled, surprisingly finding himself sending back, “She. Can. Handle. It.”  There was suddenly a siren.  “Where. Are. You.”

_We got a new number. Although, with our run of luck, this one is probably also a jigsaw victim._

Harold leaned forward, putting his head in his hand.  “Zep.”

He could hear the wind stop, obviously, Reese finding a more private place to talk, _He came along._

He couldn’t have heard him right, but then John had no reason to lie. “You. Took. Him. With –”

_It’s alright, Finch.  Zep actually knows this guy._

"Not. Better."  He was carefully measuring his breathing and trying his absolute best to keep his face blank.

_We were running low on resources, I had to improvise._

"We. Don't. Involve. Civilians."

_He won't get hurt, I promise. What were my other options?_ Harold could practically hear him set his jaw in indignation.  _I needed to keep an eye on him._

He let his head fall back into his hands as he tapped back a message of understanding, then added, "Be. Careful."

_I’m hurt that you would think I’d be anything else, Finch._   Reese said, more playful than before.  Then the line went dead.

** February 14th, 2013 – 2:15pm **

“There’s nothing here,” Reese said, moving aimlessly from room to room.  He didn’t find one computer, not a cell phone, nothing.  The man didn’t even have an alarm clock.  The fridge was empty.  There were just enough clothes in the place to cover two days, maybe three.  No pictures on the walls.  A handful of books. 

He left Zep sitting on the couch and moved to pick up a pile of newspapers, all from weeks earlier, when he heard the door open. 

“Harold?”  Carter walked in.  “New look for you… different.”

Reese turned to face her and froze. 

“John?”  She half stood in the doorway, looking from one to the other of them, her expression unreadable.  “I thought you were dealing with something.”

Zep watched them intently for a moment, then shrugged at Reese.  “I’m sorry,” he said, getting up and coming around the couch to approach her properly.  “We haven’t met yet.”  Carter watched him curiously, as he timidly extended his hand for a shake.  “My name is Zep, I’m Harold’s brother.”

~~*~~

“Harold’s … brother …”  The man who looked exactly like Harold nodded.  She took his hand gently and looked back at Reese.  “Well, it’s… a pleasure to meet you.  I’m a good friend of your brothers’.  Would you mind if I spoke to John?  In private?”

Zep shuffled away, moving into the back room to give them a moment.  Carter’s head snapped over to Reese who had the decency to look guilty.  She wasn’t entirely sure where to start, but what came out was, “A brother?” 

He cleared his throat.  “Apparently.”

She looked where Zep had gone.  “Well,” she said, still unsure about where to begin.  “Well, I assume you’re here because your sources told you Mr. Kramer was in trouble?”

He nodded.  “Want to compare notes?  Because this apartment is one big blank page.”  He practically threw the newspapers down.  “What brought you here?”

Carter winced.  “I went back to the drawing board.  Started looking through Tapp’s notes on Dr. Gordon, and decided to check out some of his patients, the thinnest of threads.  When I got to Kramer, I could barely find any information on this guy.  Something told me to dig a little deeper.” 

She walked in a circle, looking around.  “He’s had cancer for a while, but by all accounts, seems … active.”  A cursory glance over the surroundings, told her that Reese was right, there was nothing to write home about here.  Her attention went back to him.  “Gives his money away to charities, helps out in soup kitchens, volunteers at grief centers and anon-meetings.”  She shrugged.  “Everyone says he’s a great listener, really takes an interest, except no one has seen him for the last seventy-two hours.”

Reese nodded.  “Zep knows him.  But he only ever sees him when he comes in for his cancer treatments.  He works in the same hospital.”

Carter looked after where the man had gone and leaned in to Reese.  “Since when does Harold have a brother?”  Reese shrugged.  “Oh no, you don’t, you _can’t_ keep me in the dark on this.”

Reese shook his head.  “I really don’t know,” and he paused and cocked his head.  “I found out very recently myself.  I’m still trying to process it.” 

Carter’s eyes narrowed as she pondered his response, tasting it, trying to discern if it was a lie or the truth.  She let the tension go in her shoulders, sighing again.  “Can I talk to him?”

“That’s up to him, but I think so.  He said John was his friend.”

Carter nodded and walked into the other room. 

Zep was sitting on Mr. Kramer’s bed.  “Zep, right?”

He turned to look at her, a sad smile on his face.  “That’s me.” He didn’t make eye contact.  Instead, he seemed very intent at tracing the pattern on the rug with his eyes.  “I hope John’s ok.”

Carter felt her eyes soften.  “We’re going to do everything we can to find him.  Can I ask you a couple questions?”  Zep nodded.  “No one has seen him in a while.  When was the last time you did?”

Zep thought about that.  “Probably about three weeks ago?  He comes in monthly for his appointments.”

Carter nodded.  “What can you tell me about him?”

“He’s not sentimental,” Zep said, letting out a breathy laugh.  “I suppose you can see that.”  He scratched his arm.  “I don’t really know.  He never talked about anything very personal.  He always wanted to know about me.  Who I was.  He was always looking out for me.  I really hope he’s ok.” 

He wiped at his face and Carter gave a sympathetic little click of her tongue.  “We’ll find him,” she said, giving him his privacy again.

** February 14th, 2013 – 3:15pm **

“So.  Gordon has to kill Adam by 6pm.” Harold mumbled to himself.  He couldn’t help it, he felt like he was going stir crazy, he’d started pacing, watching the damn clock, and it was mocking him with its unforgiveable hour.  He’d sent the message to Reese but apparently, they were deep in the trenches of another number, so he didn’t want to bother him any more than he had to. 

For now, he was all alone.

He’d already watched them retrieve the saws from a hidden bag Jigsaw pointed them to.  Why did he use tapes, Harold thought absently.  He grimaced as they’d tried to cut through the chains.  That wasn’t what Jigsaw did.  He smiled sadly, when Gordon came to the same conclusion. 

“ _He wants us to cut through our feet_.” Gordon said, grimly, his voice tinny on the live stream.  “ _I think I know who’s taken us._ ”

Harold was beginning to feel remiss in the moments when Reese talked about working Fusco’s disappearance, especially the information that Reese shared with him about the Jigsaw killings.  It was early on that Zep took up most of his mental faculties and he wasn’t exactly proud of that.  It seemed that he’d lost a lot of what would have otherwise been useful information now. 

Of course, Dr. Gordon’s name must have come up at some point.  How could he miss a glaring detail like that? So all Harold could do was listen, as Gordon explained it all back to Adam, and giving him a regrettable refresher course.  How Tapp brought him in for questioning, released him only to have him come after Gordon, continuing to think he’d done it anyway. 

“Life must be so hard for you,” Harold found himself say.  He was beginning to see what Zep was talking about.  He covered his ears at some point and began rocking. 

What was he going to do?  How was he going to do anything from here? 

He eventually calmed himself down, but only by getting up and getting himself a glass of water.  When he returned to check the monitors, his eyes grimly staring, he was greeted by Adam’s face, _looking_ at him. 

“ _It’s a two-way mirror!_ ” he heard the photographer say, urgent.

Harold sighed, coming back to the chair.  “Yes, I can see you, hello.” He sat back down. 

“ _That’s what this is?  Reality TV?_ ” and Adam was throwing things at the camera now, which seemed to be bouncing off another protective barrier.

“Don’t look at me,” Harold said, defeated.  “I can’t help you.”

Adam did eventually quiet down, and they went back to talking about Gordon and the last things he said to little Diana and the fight with Alison.  He was shaking his head and looked anguished.  Good, Harold found himself thinking. 

“ _Would you like to see them?_ ” Gordon said, pulling out his wallet and tossing it to Adam. 

He caught it and opened it.  They talk about how lovely the child is, but when Adam asks about the wife, and Gordon directs him to check behind the one he sees, Harold notices his look of revulsion.  Gordon didn’t catch it. 

Harold leaned forward, but there’s no way to see clearly what Adam saw, as he quickly took whatever it was out of the wallet, palmed it, and tossed the whole thing back to Gordon.  “ _It’s not in there,_ ” he said.

“ _What?  No, no, it has to be.  Why… he must have taken it…_ ”

Harold finally felt a momentary pang of sympathetic torment for the man, but couldn’t help wondering what Adam had seen.


	8. Make Your Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jigsaw teaches the boys a lesson, but Harold is the one who has to sharpen his number two pencil...

** Chapter Eight – MAKE YOUR CHOICE **

** February 14th, 2013 – 3:15pm **

They found a hidden box that held a bullet and a couple cigarettes.  Harold realized there must have been a note, but nothing he could read from this angle.  Gordon seemed to be very interested in it though. He was arguing over whether or not Adam should actually smoke one of those things. 

Beeping.  Another Message.  Harold came back to the monitor after a momentary eye rest.  He clicked on the bouncing indicator.

HOW ARE ALISON AND DIANA?

Harold froze.  Suddenly a cursor was blinking for him to respond.  He swallowed and wiped his forehead.

FINE.  DOING WELL.  EXPERIMENT SEEMS TO BE WORKING.

His hands shook as he hovered over the send button, but clicked it all the same.  A moment later he received another message.

ALWAYS GOOD TO CHECK THE VITALS AND BE SURE, ZEP.

He felt flush and warm and wasn’t quite sure what to do.  Nothing like texting with a serial killer to get the blood pumping again. 

BRING ME BACK THE LITTLE GIRLS BPM.  TOP DRAWER, RIGHT HAND SIDE. 

Harold opened up the drawer to find a stethoscope.  He picked it up, his hands still shaking, but, decisively, got up.  He opened the door to the bedroom, trying to look anywhere but at the two tied to the bed.  Carefully and slowly, he got down on his good knee.  He heard a muffled protest from the mother as he put the stethoscope to the little girls’ chest and counted.

He wandered back to the console.

HEALTHY.  100 BPM.

One minute went by.  Another minute.  He vaguely wondered if Jigsaw was still there and then he saw something that practically stopped his own heart.

TOO LOW.  SHOULD BE HIGHER.  MAKE IT BEAT HARDER.

Harold coughed into his hand.  He felt the bile rise, but he swallowed it down.  How on earth was he supposed to do that…

He made his way back into the room, swinging the stethoscope this time.  He almost wanted to stomp on the floor, give her a good jump scare.  He watched as the mom fiercely guarded her daughter, as much as she could in the impossible position.  Then he knew what he had to do and the bile rose again.  He turned away and tightened his face. 

He took out the gun from his belt.

Both women shrieked as he approached.  Little Diana actually started to cry when he removed the stuffed animal from her lap.  He knelt next to her again, but instead of pointing the gun at her, he pointed it at her mother, just inches in front of her face.  He placed the stethoscope to her chest and heard everything he needed.  Touching the girls head in sympathy, he handed her back her teddy bear and staggered from the room.

MORE THAN 150 BPM.  He typed back.

There was a pause, another few minutes, and then:

BETTER.  SOON, ZEP.  IT WILL ALL BE OVER SOON, ONE WAY OR ANOTHER.

Harold punched the table softly with his fist, as he read the reply.  He put his face in his hands, making small whimpers as he did his best to get his breathing back under control.

** February 14th, 2013 – 3:35pm **

The screen went black and the lights had gone out again.  The two men were whispering.  It was impossible to know about what.  At some point, the lights came back on and Gordon tossed the cigarette to Adam from the box he’d been begging for.  Adam seemed to make a big show of “dying” and Harold scoffed. 

“ _There, see?  I did what you wanted!  Now, where is my family?”_

Well, that's clever, he thought. At least now maybe Jigsaw has a reason to let them go, although it wasn't very convincing – That’s when he heard the buzzing and saw Adam’s body convulse.  Harold jumped up from his seat, scanning the monitor, and trying to understand what happened. 

Adam screamed and jerked violently, shrieking that he’d just been electrocuted, and screamed again as the volts renewed their onslaught. 

Harold’s breathing eventually slowed as his eyes widened.  Jigsaw must be watching them too, just like he’s watching me, he thought. 

The beeping sounded again.  He rubbed his face and walked away from the computer.  Walking into the kitchen, he ran some cold water over his neck.  The beeping kept going. 

He stomped back into the room and clicked, barely stifling a scream.

THE GORDONS NEED TO MAKE A PHONE CALL. FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS CAREFULLY.

~~*~~

The man came back into the room. 

Diana tried to hide behind her mother, who looked brave, as he approached them.  She wasn’t sure what he had in his hands, it looked smooth and small, like a rock. 

He knelt in front of her mother, his eyes dead, his mouth quivering.  She swallowed, crying softly.  Her mother had told her something important.  “You’re still alive,” she’d said.  “Remember to be brave, and we’ll get out of this, you’re still alive.  Can you do that for mommy?” Diana had nodded.  “One moment to the next, baby.”

The man leaned over to whisper something to her mother, who nodded stiffly, and then he turned his face to look at her.  One moment to the next, she thought to herself. 

“Now, Diana, I’m going to let you talk to your Daddy, and you be sure to tell him how you feel, ok?” the bad man said, pursing his lips.  Diana gave a scared little nod, and watched the man open the rock.  It was a phone.  He dialed a number and the line rang.  She couldn’t help it, she started sobbing.

“ _Who is this?_ ”

The man held the phone to her ear and she began crying harder.  “Daddy!?  Daddy, is that you?”

“ _Diana?  Yeah, yeah, baby it’s me, I’m here._ ”

“I’m scared, Daddy!”

“ _Everything’s going to be ok, honey.  Where’s mommy?_ ”

“Here with me.  The bad man from my room, Daddy, he’s here.  He has us tied up and he has a gun.”

“ _W-what man?_ ”

Diana looked over at the man, but he shook his head. “Please come home, Daddy!”  She shrieked and could hear her father calling her name on the phone as it was pulled away.  The man kissed the top of her head, ruffling her hair.

The man brought the phone over to her mom and nodded again, quickly.

“Larry?” her mom said, quietly.

Diana couldn’t hear her father anymore, but she tried to stay as quiet as she could, hiding her face once again behind Alison.

“Is… Adam there with you?” her mother said, the man watching her closely, gently coaxing her to continue.  “Don’t believe… Adam’s lies,” she swallowed through her own sobs.  “He knows you.  He knew all about you, before today.” 

The man took the phone away and nodded again, ending the call.  Diana watched as he looked from one of them to the other, and walked back out.  She sighed and her mother turned to comfort her, “You did so good, baby, you followed instructions so good.  We’re getting out of here, just you wait!”

~~*~~

** February 14th, 2013 – 3:45pm **

“My wife.  She knew your name,” Gordon said, rubbing his face.  “I need to know who you are.”

Adam swallowed.  “You know who I am.”  He knew he’d been caught; Gordon just didn’t know what he’d done yet.  Maybe he could still play for more time.

“Stop _lying_ to me!”  Or not.  “You’re a liar, I just want to know the truth!” Gordon said, screeching. 

“I’m the liar?”  Adam asked, his voice taking on a high note of skepticism. 

Gordon looked guilty all of a sudden before carefully putting his blank facade back in place. “What are you talking about?”

Emboldened, Adam swallowed passed the lump in his throat, his shame making his skin hot but he pressed on. “ _You_ told me, that after you left your house last night, you went to work at the hospital.”

Gordon’s shoulders squared.  “That’s because it’s the truth.”

Adam shook his head, “No, it’s not.  Your wife is right, Larry.”  He swallowed again, closing his eyes, but the anger was still in his voice.  “You don’t recall getting your picture taken in that parking lot?” he said, suddenly making his way back towards the tub.  “You wanna know who I am?” 

He grabbed at the plastic bag they’d retrieved before and tossed the contents at Gordon, scattering pictures of him out onto the floor.  “You wanna know what I do? I get paid to take pictures of rich guys like you who go to seedy, out-of-the-way motels with their secretaries. I get money to take pictures of cheating bastard husbands, that’s who I am!”

Gordon seemed to be trying to speak, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, but it was no use. He knew he was caught, and he went to his knees to look at the pictures.  Adam braced his back against the wall, sagging down until he was sitting on the floor too.  He was quiet for so long that Adam jumped when he said, “You’ve had these with you the whole time?” 

After a couple of deep breaths, Adam replied, “No, they were in with the hacksaws.”

“Yea, right.”

Adams eyes narrowed at the thick sarcasm in Gordon’s voice. “Face it, Larry.  We’re both bull shitters, but at least my camera doesn’t lie – it will only _ever_ show you what you put right in front of it.” 

They both stared at one another for a while before finally turning away in mutual disgust.

Gordon froze. “I had everything in order…” he whispered.

Adam went feebly back to trying to get the cuff off of his ankle, and sighed. “Apparently not,” he said over his shoulder.

Gordon blinked, looking at him again. “Who hired you?”

“What?” Adam kept shaking the chains.

“You got paid to take these right?”

“Yes,” he said, blinking at him obviously.

Gordon rolled his eyes.  “Did it occur to you that whoever hired you put you in here?” He swallowed. “Was - Was it my wife?” He asked quietly.

“No,” Adam said softly. “No, I've never met your wife. No, the guy who hired me would never do this.”

Gordon stood up. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because, he's a stand up guy, he wouldn't do that. He works for the police.”

“Really,” Gordon said, warily. “What's his name?”

“It's a little hard to remember what life was like before the murder basement,” Adam said, rubbing his hands together. One glance at Gordon made him rethink his comment.  He shook his head, trying to clear it. “It was a sound, like drop, something like that.”

“T-Tapp? Was it Detective Tapp?”

Adam nodded slowly, the light bulb having gone off. “The one that was harassing you?”

“Why didn't you say anything before? Are you working with him?” Gordon's eyes were murderous.

“Hey man, as you were so fond of pointing out, I'm in the exactly same position you are.” He tugged the chain to emphasize his point.  “If I had a way out of here or a partner, don't you think I'd have been gone by now?”

Gordon stared at the one-way mirror. “Well, either way, his _harassment_ has found new heights. You hear me, Detective?” he began shouting at the wall.  “I'm going to get out of here, save my family and then… then…” he let out a frustrated scream, as he seemed to be counting his breaths, and sat back down on the floor, looking at the pictures again.

** February 14th, 2013 – 4pm **

_Harold, are you there?_

He sighed loudly.  “Always.” He tapped.

_Finch, this most recent number doesn’t make much sense.  It’s… a cancer patient.  Terminal.  Zep helps him at the hospital._

Harold leaned back.  “Victim.”

_Zep says he doesn’t have anyone.  Kind of a loner type.  His name is John Kramer.  Lives in a small apartment near the hospital, but there’s no other information we’ve been able to find.  The guy practically doesn’t exist._

“Perpetrator.” Harold tapped back with a strange hard finality. His fingers itched for his computer at his library. 

_Could be.  There’s almost nothing physically there either. The apartment is_ barely _lived in.  It reminded me of some of my old CIA buddies actually.  Really sparse, not a lot of attachment._

_We’re trying to pull anything, police records, tax information,_ Reese continued, _doesn’t even seem like the guy has any money, but he’s obviously getting it from somewhere.  No paper trail at all.  That must be why the machine missed it.  I’ll check back in soon if more develops, right now we haven’t even been able to find him to tail him…_

“Let’s. Be. Sure.”

_Of course._   There was a change in his tone and a deep breath in as Harold heard Reese say, _How are you doing?_

He closed his eyes, his lips trembled.  He didn’t know how to answer.  He couldn’t think of a good enough lie that his partner wouldn’t see through.  “Difficult. But. Steady.” was all he could think to send.

_Keep it up.  I got your message about the time table.  Whatever we do, we need to find a way to get you out of there before that, if we can._

“That. Would. Be. Good.” Harold tapped.

_Hang tight._

Harold sighed and hung up.  This is insane, he thought to himself.  His face crumbled as he began to cry in earnest.

** February 14th, 2013 – 4:30pm **

Zep fidgeted a little waiting with Carter.  The patrol car had more comfortable seats than he’d imagined, but he felt more and more like some kind of science project the longer the silence stretched.

He tried to look out of the window, people watch, something.  He spotted John speaking on the phone to someone.  He wondered if it was Harold, but then he seemed more tense than usual, so possibly not.  “Is there something I can help you with?” Zep said, distractedly, like he didn’t even mean it.

Maybe she picked up on that because she shook her head and sighed.  “I’m staring, I’m sorry.”  She turned her attention back to the windshield, looking out the front of the patrol car.  “You just look so much like – ”

“Harold, yes.  We’ve met.”  Zep was trying to steeple his hands together, which were trembling.  He gave up before it could be too noticeable.

“I had no idea he had a brother.”

Zep laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound.  “Neither did we.”  He gave a little shrug.  “It’s ok.”

Carter seemed to want to say one thing, but thought better of it and instead offered, “I'd like to know more about you.”

“I'd rather we didn’t talk about me,” Zep said, clearing his throat and looking down at his lap.  “I don’t mean to be prickly,” he said, acting demurely again in a shy sort of way.  “But that seems to be all I've been doing for the last three days, talking about me,” he ducked his head, apologetically. “I’m _really_ not that interesting.”

Carter gave him a half smile and sympathetic eyes, a look he’d seen well throughout his life.  He’d gotten used to trying to change the subject so he tried again now.  “Can you tell me anything about Harold?”  He gave her a nod tilt, still not really making eye contact.

It was Carter’s turn to give a breathy laugh.  “I’ve been working with him for… a while.  There was a time I was working with him and didn’t even know… It’s complicated, but from what I can tell John knows him the best out of anyone else I’ve seen with him.”

“John won't talk about him,” Zep said, hanging his head a little.  “I don’t mean to pry.  I just want to know… I guess I want to know if he’s… happy doing this.”  He gave a little shrug.

“I don’t know if ‘happy’ is the right word, but I like to think they find satisfaction in their jobs.  Just like I did when I was a detective.”

Zep’s head snapped to attention at the tiny scrap of communication.  “What happened?”

“Well,” she thought about it. “It's a long story.”

Zep gave her big eyes, but she wasn’t going to back down.  He begrudgingly nodded, but added, “You’ll get back to that again.  No one who’s as good as you stays down for long.”

Carter tilted her head back.  “How do you know I’m good?”

Zep shrugged again.  “You work with them, don’t you?”  She nodded and started to smile.  He smiled back.  “I get the distinct impression they do not surround themselves with people who are not worth their time, let alone work with them and invite them into their own private circle.”

She smiled wider.  “You’re pretty keen yourself, Zep.  I’m sure they wouldn’t mind working with you.”

Zep could feel his cheeks redden and he rubbed his fingers together, looking back out of the window. 

Carter looked over where John was still talking on the phone.  “Sometimes they're both a little too moral for their own good,” She chuckled.

Zep tried not to act excited but he couldn’t help it.  He turned his body towards the policewoman.  “How did you meet them?  I'd really like to hear it”

Carter thought about that for a minute.  “Well, John was being processed down at the police station and we were just about to bring him into a holding cell when someone posted his bail.”

“Really?”  Zep felt his eyes widen and he looked very intently at the back of Carter’s seat.  “Was it Harold?”

Carter nodded, “But I wouldn’t meet him till weeks later.  And even then, I wouldn’t meet the man Harold actually was until more time had passed.  They played their hand very close to the chest.”

Zep scratched at his head, more painfully with every pass.

Carter seemed to check something on her dashboard. “I really hope your friend isn’t involved in this mess too.  If we can help him, we will.” 

“I know that,” he said, running his hands up and down his thighs. “John said the same thing.”  He looked back at John, still on the phone, but his back was turned to the car now.  “I don’t understand why this is happening.”  He started shivering but did his best to cover it up. 

Carter shrugged.  “No one really does, most times you never know.”

Zep gave a snorting sound.  “I wish I knew what to do.  It all seems far too big.”

Carter was staring again, but this time more with a look of concern.  “Hey, are you ok?” 

His opened his mouth, but instead of speaking he started coughing.

“Zep?” 

He tried a few more times to speak before shaking his head, bracing himself on the door handle and really trying to get in a good breath.  But now he was shaking and he couldn’t seem to stop.  Taking a big full breath, he said, “I think – I think you need to get John.”  He leaned against the door of the passenger side, trying not to convulse.

He was in a mental limbo, but still conscious and could vaguely tell when she leapt out of the car and called out, “John?”

Reese turned to her, tapping his earpiece, seeming to open up a phone between the two of them.  “I know.  Turn on your siren and let me follow you in my car, I’ll explain on the way.” He opened the passenger door to grab at Zep.  “Hey, Zep, you hang in there ok?” Zep gave a very shallow nod.  “Come on, and Carter,” his car door had barely closed, “Drive fast!”

~~*~~

Carter pulled up just outside of Gordon’s apartment.  She looked up at the big bay windows, but instead turned her attention across the street, where John had told her Tapp was. 

“How can you be so sure he’s in there?”  Carter had asked, sounding very skeptical.

_Oh, he’s in there alright.  Just stick to the plan, and everything will be fine._

She rolled her shoulders a couple of times and made her way up the stairs.  The apartment had been a crime scene, but all the evidence was already catalogued and reviewed.  Tapp must have made this his base of operations while he was pursuing Gordon.  She frowned as she knocked on the door, but made sure to put a smile on her face when it opened. 

The latched opened after the third lock was undone.  “Carter?”  he said, barely above a whisper.  “What are you doing here?”

“Helping you out!” she said. 

“Helping me… I don’t understand.”

She tilted her head to the side and looked at him with a very serious glare.  “You’re scoping out Fusco’s kidnapper, aren’t you?”  He got a very caged look on his face, but ultimately opened the door wider and let her in.  He’s carved out a little hole for himself near the window, which were curtained at the moment, with a telescope and a camera set up, hoping to catch the killer in the act.

“I know why you’re here, scoping out Gordon’s place.” Carter said, taking in the old Chinese food containers and clearing a place for her to sit down on a couch which was obviously doubling as his bed.  “I just … want to see what you’ve got so far, maybe I can help you.”

If only I can get him talking, she thought, then it should give John enough time to actually get Harold out… Hopefully.


	9. We'll Find You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new player is in the game and changes up the board!

** Chapter Nine – WE’LL FIND YOU **

** February 14th, 2013 – 5:45pm **

_Good evening, Harry, what’d I miss?_ The honeyed tones of Root were enough to make his spine stiffen as his blood ran cold.  He could practically see her smirking as the gentle tease in her voice became wistful.

He swayed a little on his feet and leaned on the back of his chair for support, before freezing his movements, except for his eyes, which darted all around the room.   He eventually shook his head and realized he was hyperventilating.

 _You’re not being watched,_ she giggled.   _You can speak._

He had to count his breaths in order to calm down.  His blood pressure couldn’t take much more of this.  “Miss. Groves.” He finally tapped into his earpiece, hoping the tap came out as the question he intended.

 _No, seriously Harry, talk to me._ He could hear a motorcycle engine start.   _No one is watching you – well, no one you don’t_ want _watching you anyway,_ She laughed.

Harold was being doused in cold and hot flashes and felt faint.  Shock, he thought absently.  He kept tapping.  “I. Don’t. Underst –”

 _Harold Finch!_  He could imagine her dismal expression and the way her head would give a little shake, apparently he’d upset her. _I know you don’t trust me right now.  I know I haven’t given you much reason to.  But trust your Machine.  She’s the one telling you, you’re not being watched._

Harold dropped the tension in his shoulders and straightened up as much as he could.  He whispered, “How did you get out?”

_That’s really not important right now._

Harold narrowed his eyes.  “I’m really not in the mood for games, Miss Groves.”

She chuckled, _Well, then it’s a good thing we’re on the same team now, Harry.  But you need to get over to the meatpacking district.  You need to get out of there in the next four and a half minutes._

“Wait, what do you mean… Miss Groves?”

 _Washington Street and Gansevoort.  Look for the cartoon clown on the awning.  She says you’ll find him in the blood.  Gotta run, I’ve got a date with a small assassin and her lion.  I’ll be in touch, and Harry,_ she went quiet and sympathetic.   _She will always support what you think is best,_ and the line went dead.

Harold stood up, barking his shin on the table, but it didn’t stop him.  Moving quickly, he tapped his earpiece, making his way into every room, gathering things as he went.  “Mr. Reese, we haven’t much time,” he said aloud.  “I have a plan, but we have to act fast.  Where are you?”

 _Right downstairs, Harold._  John Reese was murmuring crystal clear into his ear. _The car is waiting for you._

“Did Miss Groves -?”

_Yes, and Zep is waiting in the car for you._

“Good,” Harold held his breath.

_This could be a trap._

“I know, but it’s the only plan we’ve got.”  

He checked the feeds, the two men were becoming increasingly agitated.  There was no time for debate.  

“Follow my lead,” and Harold took the gun out of his belt.

~~*~~

The man came crashing into the bedroom, and looked at them more aggressively than he’d done before.  Alison did her best to put her body between him and Diana, but she was so scared, she couldn’t stop shaking.

“Well, Mrs. Gordon.” She saw him wave the gun and shrug.  “Your husbands time is –”

Suddenly there was a crash from the master bathroom.  The man cursed, making his way over, and braced himself against the wall.  “I wouldn’t try it, I’m armed,” he shouted.

A hand seemed to come out of nowhere and grab at the man.  Alison heard a scuffling, some glass breaking, a shot rang out and then a large stumble onto the floor.

This new man was tall and good looking.  He wore a well fitted suit, and he had a gun in his hand as he scanned the room.  When his eyes fell on Alison and Diana, he put the gun away, and made to untie them.  “I’m with NYPD, ma’am, you and you’re daughter are safe now.”

He undid Alison’s gag, but she was too weak to do anything but cry.  Diana sniffed and stared down at the floor.

The man waited until Alison could look up at him and smiled.  “My partner’s going to take care of you.  You’re going to be fine.”  With that, the man walked back into the bathroom.

From the living room, she heard the door give way and a woman’s voice, “NYPD.  We heard gunshots.  Is everyone ok?”

Alison would never see that man again and he never gave a name.  She would spend the rest of her life, grateful to be alive, but wondering who he was.

~~*~~

Reese hopped out of the window and brushed off his hands.  “Well, that was pretty convincing stuff, Finch.  Don’t be surprised when you get that Oscar call...”

Reese turned to find himself alone on the fire escape.  “Finch?” 

He saw the edge of Harold’s shoes as he raced down to the waiting car.  Taking the stairs two at a time, he did his best to catch up.

“Hey, hey Finch,” he shouted, but the engine was already turning.  “Harold, wait!”

The car sped off.  Reese cursed under his breath.

He tapped his earpiece and told Carter he was sorry, but he had to borrow the patrol car.  “I’ll bring it back in one piece if I can,” and hung up before she could reply.

** February 14th, 2013 – 5:57pm **

“He's an orderly at my hospital. He's in my apartment.” Gordon’s eyes flashed red.  “Zep, Zep I'm going to kill you!”  He said, shaking and screaming, worrying his chains, cursing and spitting.  “My family, he took them!  He’s the one who… no, no, I’ll kill you!”

“Just calm down, man.  Oh, Jesus!” Adam was trying to calm him down but there seemed to be nothing he could do.  “Don’t lose it, hang in there.  We haven’t gotten a call, maybe their fine!”

Gordon was crying so hard he was coughing.

Suddenly the door opened and Gordon saw Zep walk in.  “You!   _You bastard!_ ”  He lunged for him, but Zep sidestepped him easily.  “I’ll kill you!”  

“Doctor Gordon?”  From behind the first man, came a second one who looked exactly like the first, just wearing a suit.  “Doctor Gordon, I’m sure you have questions, but you’re going to have to just relax and stay calm.  We’re here to get you out.”

Gordon thought he had gone completely insane, but Zep #2 dodged his hand as well.  “I’ll get you both!” and he started laughing a terrible heart wrenching sound.  He grabbed for the bonesaw but the one in the leather jacket kicked it away.

The two men fully entered the room, the one in the suit was twitching, but the other one was looking with eagle sharpness everywhere, until his eyes settled on the dead man on the floor.  

“Harold, what is it?” the one in the suit said, coming towards him, leaning on him a little.  “Oh… Oh my God, John!”  The one in the suit made to kneel by the body, but the one in the leather jacket held him where he was.  “No, no wait, that’s John Kreamer, one of my patients, please – please!” and he started to wail. 

John Kramer?  Really?  Gordon’s mind reeled.  He couldn’t get a clear look at his face so it was hard to tell.  Especially with so much blood and what looked like a gunshot would to the head.  But judging by Suit Zep’s reaction, this had to be the same patient they’d had a fight about all those months ago.  Leather Jacket Zep whispered something to him and the one in the suit quieted.

Gordon laughed, but it turned into a wail.  Adam seemed to try and shrink as much as he could back into his corner.

Leather Jacket Zep pulled out the gun from his waist and lowered it, pointing it to the man’s head.  Suit Zep seemed to be struggling with himself, but he kept it together.

“I suggest you stand very slowly, otherwise this puddle of blood is about to get much _much_ bigger.”  The Leather Jacket Zep had such a commanding tone it was hard not to look at his face.  Peircing, and aggressive, but cold and calculating. 

He cocked the gun, “Now.” There was a finality in the word that made everyone froze, except for the dead body face down in the pool of blood.  Gordon grunted, backing away as far as he could. 

John Kramer was now unmistakable, as he pulled himself up onto his hands and knees and tore away what seemed like a prosthetic mask from his face. He stretched, and slowly rolled his shoulders, before sitting back on his legs, more steadily than Gordon would have thought possible. 

Gordon and Adam both locked eyes with each other and just baulked.

“Zep, I’m surprised at you.” Kramer said, clearing his soft voice once or twice.  “Didn’t think you could piece it all together –” and then he seemed to notice there were two of them.  “I see, so you did have help,” he said, looking from one to the other.

A third man entered.  “Mr. Reese,” said one of the Zeps.  “If you would be so kind as to cut Dr. Gordon and Adam free, please bring them out to the car.”  The man did as Leather Zep instructed and that would be the last time Dr. Gordon saw either Zep again.

~~*~~

When Reese left the room, Finch surveyed Kramer intensely. 

“How dare you,” Zep said at his side.  “It was you the whole time?  Did you only get close to me to get to Dr. Gordon?  What did he ever do to you that was worth killing his family over.”

Kramer never moved or reacted once, and Finch just watched him; one stone recognizing another.

Zep was suddenly grabbing for the gun in Finch’s hands and they wrestled against each other. 

“Answer me, asshole!” 

Finch held on tight, and watched as a tremor took hold of Zep.  “Zep, let go.  Please, he has other people, good people in danger.” Finch could see he was starting to lose his grip.  “We need to know where - Stop!”

Zep stops almost instantly. 

Finch was breathing heavily as his gaze went back to Kramer, who was still watching them intently, only now with a big smile on his face.  Finch swallowed.  “Zep, would you be so kind as to move Mr. Kramer over here, and chain him to the pipe please.” 

“Of course, Harold,” and he did, smoothly, even though his hands shook with the lock and the anger was deep in his eyes.  Zep stood above Kramer, and was suddenly punching him in the face. 

Finch’s lips twitched, but he recovered.  “Zep, come on.”  Kramer never made a sound, but Zep stopped.  “Check his pockets,” Finch ordered. 

Zep found what looked like a vial and a syringe.  He found something that looked like a remote control.  He cocked his head to the side, and then tossed it to Finch.  “Not sure what that does,” he said, but he was already trying to find a vein.

“Doesn’t matter, he’s not going anywhere.”  Finch pocketed the remote. 

Zep injected himself with the antidote and sat down on the floor measuring his breathing.  Reese chose that moment to come back in.  “John, please take Zep out to the car too.  He’s had a hard day.  Everyone needs a trip to the hospital, I think.” 

Finch and Kramer were eyeing each other still, but now Finch let the fire show in his and Kramer swallowed hard.

“Are you sure, Harold?”

Finch nodded, and that was all Mr. Reese needed. 

Just before leaving, Zep turned to whisper, “Rot in hell.” 

Finch took out his phone and began texting one handed.  “So – Mr. Kramer.”

“Harold, is it?”  Kramer was still smiling.  “My my, you are certainly a worthy opponent.”

Finch’s eyes flicked to Kramer’s face and then back to his phone. 

“I was never really planning to kill poor old Zep, you realize that, don’t you?”

Finch gave his head the slightest of shakes.

“I was hoping he’d be my… personal assistant.  I don’t feel very well, and your brother’s violent streak could be quite useful.”

Finch’s head cocked to the side.  “You will tell me where you are keeping Ms. Shaw and Detective Fusco and you will do it with haste.”

Kramer cocked his head to the side.  “Now why would I do that?”  Coughing, his first real sign of sickness all day, some blood trickled down his chin.  “Besides, they have their own games to play soon enough.”  Kramer went back to being unmovable. 

Finch let a small smirk appear on his face, as he sweetened his voice.  “You’re a smart man.  You are also dying.  But, if you want to continue living, and I think you do, you are going to ruin as many lives as possible while you do it.  Now –”

Finch took out the remote from his pocket.  “I know what this does.  I was the one watching you’re little ‘experiment,’” and he let the anger color that one word. 

“You would make a wonderful assistant,” Kramer said.

Finch didn’t even stop.  “I would love nothing more than to press this little button and never stop.  But I’m not going to do that.”

Kramer’s eyes widened as he heard heels from the doorway. 

“She is,” and Finch tossed the remote, deflty, to Root, who came charging into the room.  The buzzing was louder than Finch thought it would be and he watched as Kramer tried to keep his control without convulsing to violently. 

Root was unrelenting.  “Where. Are. They.” She whispered, her voice surprisingly level considering what she was doing.  Kramer finally screamed and tried to hold up a hand.  She stopped.

“Tell us where they are, or I give you to my friend here.  She’s very good at torture, believe me.” Root looked at Finch through her periphery, but Finch only had eyes for Kramer. 

“You are an exceptional kind of criminal,” he said.  “One that I have no qualms about propelling into the deepest darkest hole I can find, but honestly,” the gun waving back and forth. “And no one is more shocked than I when I say, I’d rather just shoot you.”

Letting out a bark of laughter, Finch leaned forward.  “Give me a reason to stay your execution, hmm?”

Kramer leant his head to one side, eyeing both of them, and then nodded over to the sink.  “There’s a lose tile there with the coordinates.  That’s where you’ll find them.”

“Root?”

“I got it, Harry.”

“What if it’s a trap?”

Root tapped her temple.  “I’ve got eyes on the inside, I’ll know.  When I have news, I’ll contact you.”  And she was gone. 

“Well, now we wait,” Finch said, walking to the door.  He was tossing the remote up in the air and catching it, nimbly.  “I wonder how we will pass the time,” and he placed the gun on the floor, looking closer at the remote control.

** February 14th, 2013 – 6:05pm **

“Yes, I completely understand your reasoning,” Root signaled and changed lanes.  “But if you think I’m going to leave her there for another minute, you’re reasoning needs serious math adjustments.”

She stopped at a red light and rolled her shoulders. 

“Sam.  First.” She said. 

She listened for a moment or two and then gave a nearly imperceptible nod.  “Thank you.”  She revved her engine and sped off down an alleyway.  “I’m coming, honey.”

~~*~~

Root pulled up just outside of South Street Seaport, and ran along the pier, looking for something. 

Thankfully, the tide was low, and she managed to hook her arm underneath and swing down.  The small skiff was easy to slip into and she found a crowbar and some tack.  She jumped out again and ran along the shore.

The abandoned building was damaged in a storm and the front door was practically at sea level.  Waiting for high tide, she thought.  There seemed to be power generators on the top floor so she made quick work, shorting out a fuse or two to blow open the surprisingly updated electronic lock.  

“Hey sweetie, you down there?”  

Root was lightning fast, as she made her way up some stairs and jumped through a dilapidated piece of wall.  

It was so dark, she wasn’t sure which way to go and then finally she heard a groan.  

“Shaw – Sam!”  She took the crowbar and wacked the wall a few times, which gave way easily.  She drew her gun on instinct, whispering a “I’m sure you’re right but just in case,” and turned the corner.

Shaw was tied up to a beam but half doubled over, drugged heavily.  Root secured the room first and then briskly made her way over to her.  “Hey, hey, Shaw – you with me?”  Shaw looked up and saw Root, her eyes widened, but she couldn’t seem to say anything, her head jus lulling back to where it was.  “You say the sweetest things,” she said, working hard to free her.

“I gotcha, here you go,” and she lifted Shaw onto her shoulder.  “We’re going to get you out of here, just hang in there, baby!”

Root didn’t go back to her bike, but instead made a left to open a car door and slide Shaw into the backseat. She turned over the ignition and drove along the pier and finally seeing the bar sign the Machine was telling her about.  

She sighed and leaned her forehead down on the steering wheel. 

“Root?” came Shaw’s muffled voice.  “You evil?”

Root turned to look at her.  “That depends.  But no, not today.”

“What happened?”

“You should sleep.”

“Lionel?”

“In a minute,” Root turned back to the steering wheel.  “Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

** February 14th, 2013 – 6:30pm **

Finch smiled, reading Roots text.  “Lionel too, thank goodness,” and let out a sigh.  He put the gun into his belt and left the room, walking back to the main building.  Reese practically ran into him opening up the door.

“Finch?  Finch!  Are you alright?” Reese held onto Finch’s arm protectively, even though the other man appeared for all the world to be unharmed.  “Is he…”

“He… is a very lucky man, Mr. Reese.”  Finch’s eyes had gone hard.  “He’s fine.  I left him chained up, and contacted the authorities.  I’m sure as soon as I get back to my work station, they will have all of the evidence they need to lock him away for the rest of his days, which I hope are longer than I think they are.”

Reese smiled.  “I’m so sorry, Finch, for all of this.”

Finch looked passed him to the horizon.  “John, please take me to the Hospital. I’d like to see Zep.”


End file.
